


Who Wants To Live Forever?

by LuckyWantsToKnow



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Characters from Highlander, Cowboys, E Rating because of language mostly, Enormous time leaps, F/F, Fast and Loose (plot and characters), Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Highlander Adjacent/AU, Major character death - Freeform, Original Characters - Freeform, The spelling of Constance Clutie's name is intentional, Wayhaught - Freeform, Weapons, beavers - Freeform, bi-nonna, yes there is sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 17:05:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 73,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16958055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyWantsToKnow/pseuds/LuckyWantsToKnow
Summary: “From the dawn of time we came, moving silently down through the centuries. Living many secret lives, struggling to reach the time of the gathering, when the few who remain will battle to the last. No one has ever known we were among you…until now.” --Highlander (1986)Who will make the ultimate sacrifice when There Can Be Only One?





	1. Chapter 1

**Scandinavia: 5th Century**

Within a ring of carefully arranged stones, deep in the woods, the woman kneels at the feet of the shaman, head bowed, listening as her mentor details the ritual.

The voice echoes as if passing through time, emerging from the shadowy face barely visible under the gaping mouth of the wolfskin cloak. 

“It is time. I have taught you all that I can of the will of the Gods. Now you must find the man who will be the one to save the world from darkness.

“The warrior must go forth into battle, bare to the attack, unafraid of death. The power will come to the warrior and he will rend the enemy’s head from its body, as the wolf tears its prey. Even in death he will be reborn, and with every rebirth he will become stronger.

“Many warriors will be chosen to play this Game, and at the last the remaining two will gather and fight to the death. Only these chosen ones can truly bring death to the others; no mere mortal can kill them.”

The shaman shakes her head, muttering an incantation, and the bones adorning her fur headdress rattle hollowly. She draws a crooked dagger from a bag at her feet and holds it in her palms towards the apprentice. Runes crawl up the blade and fade out as the shaman continues speaking.

“This blade will choose the warrior, and his intentions must be pure. In the wrong hands, this weapon will bring darkness and blood unto the world for all eternity. Here, on this hallowed ground, Odin be my witness, I give this to you. Though it may be an eternity from now, go forth and find the warrior who will wield this weapon and save the world.”

Constance rises to her feet and takes the blade in her hand. The power of the knife hums and sings through her blood as she steps close to the shaman. 

“Thank you mistress,” she says humbly, reaching for the shaman as if to embrace her. As they move together Constance draws the blade deeply through the shaman’s neck, slicing through flesh and bone as easily as through air. It happens so quickly that the shaman’s expression has time to contort into one of surprise before both head and body drop bonelessly to the floor. 

Constance is familiar with what comes next; she’s trained under her mentor and seen the power come to her, so she’s not surprised when blue lightning crackles through the treetops and strikes the headless body, drawing it into the air as a stream of energy flows out of its neck and slams into Constance with great force.

Her body morphs in the crackling light, flickers of red and purple darting out of the maelstrom, and when the light stops, the ring of stones lie cracked and blackened. A silver wolf, standing alone in the center, shakes out her ruff and bounds silently into the woods. 

* * *

**Scotland: 1536**

“Nicole! Come doon fae there! Ye’r nae a brownie” shouts Conor Haught, looking on in abject terror as his five-year-old daughter and only child scrambles fearlessly up the stone walls of their manor. She’s got to be several falls up and that’s what she’ll do he fears,  _ fall _ .  

Nicole’s always been a wild child, not willful per se but...determined perhaps. She’s never been one to wait for permission to do or go after something that she wants...and right now, Nicole wants to climb. 

“A’m braw da,” she calls back but in that instance the inevitable happens, her leather-clad foot slips and her hands grab fruitlessly for a hold as her body is suddenly thrown off-balance. Conor draws a deep breath as it seems that Nicole will be able to hold on to the wall, and then time seems to stand still as her grip breaks free, sending Nicole tumbling backwards in what would, in any other circumstance, be a beautiful dive. 

Conor can’t even scream.  He’s about to watch his child die and he’s frozen in place. He remains that way for what feels like an eternity but in reality is only seconds, until with a sickening crunch Nicole impacts the ground, her limbs twisted awkwardly. She lies still. 

“She’s aff tae die,” intones the healer, no sentiment evident in his voice. His judgement bleeds through in his tone,  _ what kind of father lets a girl run wild _ ? Nicole lies silent, wrapped in a rough spun cloth, blood still seeping from her nose in a slow ooze. “Ha’ the priest see her,” he commands, and rises to leave. Her father strokes her face desperately, speechless as the priest gives her the last rites. 

Later, Nicole lies motionless on the pallet. She’s alone in the dark manor, cool as a cave. Everything hurts, she thinks, even as the pain morphs and changes in her body. “Da…,” she calls weakly, “....ma bones itch,” then passes out. 

Days pass and Nicole doesn’t die. The clansmen and their families think it’s a miracle. “She’s a pure tough bairn,” they complement her father. “God was peepin ower her,” he’s told. The day she finally rises from the pallet and goes outside is the best day of Conor’s life. He vows to watch over her, tame her...to not lose her like he lost her mother those years back. But Nicole’s will cannot be denied, and she proves to be hard to kill. 

* * *

 

**Quebec City, le Canada region: 1608**

A slim figure sidles alongside the low slung timber lodge, crouching under a window opening to peer inside. Around the edge of a heavy canvas covering, the interloper catches a glimpse of a roaring fire and a table set with victuals, a coarse loaf of bread and a flagon of some beverage. A hay mattress lies upon a slab of stone with a snoring blanket-swaddled lump upon it, a mess of dark hair the only thing visible. The fur-clad person throws one leg and then the other carefully over the sill, sneaking stealthily into the lodge, pulling back the hood of their parka to reveal sparkling blue eyes and long black hair. 

Wynonna, for that is her name, chances a quick look around the lodge and smirks to find it empty, save for the sleeping figure on the bed. She quietly takes a sniff at the flagon and appreciatively helps herself to a large gulp of whiskey.  _ At least this boy knows how to lay a table _ , she thinks. Throwing off her heavy furs to reveal a shapely body clad in men’s trousers and shirt, she moves quickly over to the bed and slides in next to the sleeper, wrapping her arm around their waist and leaning in to the back of their head with a throaty command, “Wake up, Louis! I can’t believe you’re asleep, knowing I was coming here tonight. I risk life and limb for a piece of your cod, you lazy fisherman.” 

The sleeper wakes with a start, turning in Wynonna’s arms to reveal not Louis, but his younger sister Eloise, who happens to also be dark-haired and pretty. Eloise gasps upon seeing Wynonna and pushes back in her arms as simultaneously Wynonna slides away from her and puts her hands up, silently conveying that she means no harm. 

“Sacre bleu!” Eloise breathes out as Wynonna tries to creep towards the edge of the bed. “Wait!” the girl cries. “Wynonna, yes?.... you’re the fur trader. Louis has gone away with the fishermen. DId he not tell you he was going?” Wynonna shakes her head mutely, but her eyes sparkle as she takes in the younger girl’s figure in her nightdress. Eloise catches her looking and a pretty blush spreads across her cheeks. She holds out her hand, inviting. “It’s cold out...why not stay, trader?” 

* * *

**Scottish Highlands: 1547**

Nicole is sixteen years old.  Her red hair flames around her shoulders, and she’s already several inches taller than her contemporaries. Wrapped in the blue and green tartan of the Haught clan, her arms bare, Nicole cuts a striking figure as she strides through the heather, swinging a hardened staff in her wake. Scars mar her creamy skin, evidence of a life of hard-won adventure. A large meandering red blemish up one arm tells the story of another fall, this one down a steep canyon, her progress stopped by her arm becoming wedged in between two slabs of granite. It’s a wonder it wasn’t torn off, but Nicole’s been inordinately lucky all her life. Both hands are calloused, the knuckles criss-crossed with white healed injuries, from the climbing habit she’s never been able to shake. 

The Haught clansmen view Nicole with some suspicion these days. “A man wid hae died by noo considering howfur often…” her aunt Elspeth whispers to Conor, but he hushes her immediately. “Nicole is special,” he replies fondly, but he can’t hide the concern that creases his brow. 

Boys aren’t interested in Nicole, she’s too confident and independent, but more importantly she’s not interested in them. Nicole’s managed to shirk tradition thus far and finds work tending the flocks of a friend of her father, Ross, who lives alone with his daughter Aileen. Sheepherding suits her need to be outdoors and solitary, and her unusual strength and speed have saved sheep on more than one occasion. 

On a blustery morning she finds herself awoken quite early by nervous bleating from the flock. Nicole wraps herself in her cloak and belts it; grabbing her staff she heads out of her hut to find the sheep circling and backing, the younger sheep instinctively pushed towards the center of the flock. Then she sees it, the red eyes of a wolf gleaming just through the heather. 

Yelling loudly and brandishing her staff, Nicole runs without hesitation toward the wolf, which surprises her by standing its ground confidently and baring its teeth. Just as Nicole swings her staff at the wolf’s head, it leaps. She just manages to draw the staff across her chest, slavering jaws snap down on the hardwood, and they tumble to the ground. 

Nicole expertly wields her staff, surprising the animal by shoving it hard, up and away, as she bounds to her feet, immediately swinging and cracking the wolf across the shoulder. It yelps and staggers, and Nicole takes advantage of the wolf being off balance to twirl her staff in her hands, raising it like a spear and bringing it down hard onto the middle of the wolf’s skull. The animal collapses, gasping, as Nicole pulls a short dirk from her belt and straddles the wolf. She pulls its head up with her forearm and draws the dirk quickly across its throat. 

Nicole waits quietly as the wolf bleeds out, its teeth snapping futilely and its body bucking against her, once...twice...until it eventually succumbs and lies still. Only then does she stand up and look around herself. Out of the corner of her eye she notices a quick movement on the bluff and squinting, she makes out another wolf of an unusual silver color, staring at her for a long moment before moving silently away. The sheep are quiet and she turns toward the main hut to see Ross’ back as he corrals the animals.  Aileen watches her with a soft smile on her face then raises her hand to Nicole. A new warm feeling arises in Nicole’s chest as Aileen’s smile grows. 

On her seventeenth birthday, Nicole climbs the ladder in their barn and finds herself out of breath for the first time in her life. She takes in Aileen, naked in the hayloft on her cloak, her downy skin on display, a pale contrast to her clan’s bold tartan. Nicole’s normally steady hands fail her as she reaches for her belt, trying blindly to unclasp the buckle, when Aileen sits up and reaches a hand towards her.

“Let me help,” she implores softly, and Nicole shuffles closer on her knees, watching as Aileen removes her belt and lays it aside, opening her wrapped cloak and pushing it off of her shoulders. The cool air hits Nicole’s chest and she exhales through her nose; Aileen must be able to see her heart beating so hard in her chest, she thinks. As if reading her mind, Aileen lays a hand between her breasts. “Yer sae bonnie,” she smiles at Nicole, reaching her other hand up to caress Nicole’s jaw. Aileen boldly trails her hand down Nicole’s neck and over her collarbone, around her breast and underneath it, cupping, and Nicole watches her nipples stiffen, in awe. 

“Kin I touch ye,” Nicole asks shyly and Aileen nods her consent, bringing her hand back up to Nicole’s jaw, she pulls her in to her lips. Nicole braces herself with a hand on either side of Aileen’s shoulders as they fall back on the cloak. It isn’t long before Nicole discovers that there’s a rhythm to kissing that comes naturally to them. Time seems to stand still as the only sound is the bleating of sheep, the humming of bees, and their increasingly heavier breathing as Nicole’s hand finds it way to stroke up and down Aileen’s torso and eventually parts the golden curls between her legs. 

Nicole has always learned everything by doing it, and touch is her most sharply defined sense. Her fingertips are calloused but ultra sensitive, made so through years of finding the tiniest holds on rock faces. When she finally touches Aileen it feels like an electric shock courses through both of them; for Nicole it starts at her fingertips and shoots straight to her heart. Aileen rears back in pleasure, “Och, Nicole,” she gasps out, clutching at Nicole’s shoulder, and Nicole’s mouth drops open in awe at the feeling of so much wet slickness in her palm.

Sex is messy and instinctive, Nicole finds, as she uses those strong and talented fingers to figure out exactly what Aileen likes best, even as her own body unconsciously grinds against Aileen’s. The pleasure is so great, so unexpected, that they both quickly climax. Slightly stunned, they stare at each other then start to giggle. Nicole hides her face in Aileen’s long hair and laughs, her heart light and soaring, everything right in her world. 

* * *

 

**Quebec City, le Canada region: 1610**

Wynonna tromps through the snow, reflecting sourly on how her feet sink in  _ up to my vagina,  _ she thinks. A dead beaver is slung over one shoulder. She arrives at one of her fur traps and is happy to find another beaver caught within. She mentally tallies her day’s work and determines that she can purchase a hot meal and a bottle of whiskey that night,  _ and possibly the lovely Eloise is available as well _ , she muses.

Wynonna loses herself for a moment, remembering a number of evenings spent in her company.  _ Eloise knows how to please a woman _ , Wynonna reflects,  _ better than her brother actually. It’s a shame she’s marrying off to the cooper.  _ She’s so lost in thought that she almost misses the softest crunching of snow behind her, in combination with an unforgettable buzz down her spine. Wynonna freezes, listening hard, and hears it again... _ crunch _ …

Leaning slowly over the beaver trap, as if to remove the dead animal, she slips a short, thick sword from inside her coat where it lies concealed along her leg. The hair on the back of her neck stands up, every sense on full alert until suddenly she drops to a crouch, a sword stroke whistling over her head a millisecond later. Wynonna spins on her heels, getting her feet solidly under her as she bounds up, jumping with admirable dexterity over the beaver trap and buying herself some space.

“I take it you’re not here for beaver,” she challenges.

The opponent grins at her. “I’ll take yours, you unnatural creature,” he quips nastily, “right before I cut that head from your body.” 

“Fasil,” Wynonna grunts, “You frog bastard. You’ve come all the way to the frozen wilderness of Canada just to die?” 

“Sale pute!” Fasil screeches, as he swipes and thrusts his sword at Wynonna. “There can be only one!”

“I left you to live at the behest of that bastard Cartier, Fasil,” Wynonna grunts, dodging his sword.  “He promised you would leave me alone if I didn’t kill you.” Wynonna stumbles momentarily, blocking a whistling stroke as she scramble backwards in the snow. “Listen, we can figure out this ‘only one’ thing when it actually matters...live our lives,” she cajoles.

“Don’t speak that name to me,” Fasil spits. “Cartier left me to die from the scurvy. There’s no such thing as love of your fellow man,” he says, swinging wildly at Wynonna, “and for me to live my life, you must eventually lose yours. Why delay the inevitable?”

Wynonna dances around Fasil, jabbing at him and generally tiring him out. She’s lighter, faster and more toned from a life spent outdoors, all sharp edges. She observes that he’s dressed in fine garb, not appropriate for the climate at all. A linen shirt with doublet, lightweight shoes and even an elaborate ruff.  “What are you wearing anyway, Fasil, you dandy?” Wynonna asks, continuing to remain just out of range of Fasil’s blade, toying with him. “It’s freezing here, idiot,” she adds, noting the growing fatigue evident in Fasil’s movements.

Even as his body is cold and exhausted, Fasil’s will to win is strong and he thrusts his sword hard at Wynonna, forcing her to curse and fold inwards on herself to keep her guts inside, and reminding her that her life is at stake.

She can almost take pity on Fasil, Immortal like herself but not as strong as she, and wonders if maybe some Immortals ever succeed in just giving up...hiding out somewhere hoping never to be found...but she doesn’t dwell on the feelings as, seeing an opening, she reaches in and, almost too easily, strikes Fasil’s head from his neck. As the body falls limply to the ground, head rolling away, blue lightning strobes from the clear sky and lifts Fasil’s headless body into the air. Crackling blue energy streams out of Fasil’s neck and into Wynonna. Her arms are drawn upward, mouth ajar, eyes rolled back into her head as Fasil’s power enters her.

That night Wynonna cuts a slender line into her forearm, barely deep enough to hurt but definitely enough to scar. It joins three other lines representing her kills. Four Immortals are dead at Wynonna’s sword, and she doesn’t even know why. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Scotland: 1549**

 

A solitary silver wolf has been seen on the Highlands, taking sheep when she wishes in complete silence. Men have hunted her but never gotten close enough to strike with staff or ax, or within range of a well-thrown spear. The wolf is described as of an unusual size with long gleaming fangs, and the clansmen mutter that she must be the  _ Baobhan Sith,  _ a female vampire or a demonic shapeshifter. 

 

Nicole is barely eighteen, coming over the bluffs with Ross’ sheep when she hears Aileen screaming. She begins to run at once, the sheep forgotten, her staff gripped firmly in her strong hands. Nicole bursts into the hut to find Aileen on her back, the silver wolf atop her and blood spraying everywhere. It’s gory and terrifying and Nicole hesitates at the horrific sight, just long enough for the animal to clock her presence and, with a final snap to Aileen’s face, turn slowly to grin a snarl at Nicole. 

 

Nicole raises her staff. There’s something about this animal that’s more frightening than any dumb beast she’s seen or killed. She recalls killing the first wolf, and a second silver wolf watching from the bluffs.  _ Could this be the same animal? _ she wonders, her mind racing.  _ Is it even an animal or is it the Baobhan Sith? _ She feels a strong urge to make the sign of the cross over herself. The wolf stares into her eyes and Nicole feels frozen in place with the preternatural intelligence she sees within. The only sounds in the hut are Nicole’s heavy breathing and gasping, bubbling sounds coming from Aileen, as her hands claw at the dirt floor.  _ She is dying, _ Nicole realizes in a panic. Suddenly, with a shake of her head, Nicole focuses and shoves the staff at the wolf with both hands lightening quick, as she draws her dirk from her belt. Stepping immediately to the wolf, she slashes at it. “Git awa' fae her ye bitch,” she yells. 

 

The wolf makes a noise, an almost human  _ laugh _ , and leaps clear over Nicole, and out of the hut. Nicole strides to the entrance to see the wolf’s silver tail vanishing into the heather, then hurries to Aileen. She’s not dead, but her face is badly mauled, a long bloody rend from under her eye, and her cheek is flayed open so Nicole can see teeth and jawbone clear through it. Bites and scratches mar her arms, defensive wounds where Aileen tried to protect herself. There’s so much blood and Nicole can only press her cloak tightly against the wound, holding Aileen’s whimpering form against her, and hope that Ross returns soon so she might ride for a healer. Nicole rocks Aileen, crooning softly to her, and waits. 

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

**Scotland: 1552**

 

“Be safe loue,” Aileen says, stroking Nicole’s cheek as she prepares to ride out. Fear is apparent in her eyes, and Nicole thinks sadly of Conor and Ross, both lost to a useless clan war which has destroyed their idyllic life within the last six months. 

 

Haughts battle Cluties over the right to access a bay, a bay which both clans used harmoniously until the Cluties decided to exclude access to Haughts, in theory for their predominantly Catholic beliefs. Pastor Clutie is a fervent follower of the teachings of the Calvinist branch of the church, and preaches that the Haught clansmen are sinners. Because the Clutie’s settlement is immediately at the mouth of the bay, it’s easy for them to block it off. Black and red tartan Clutie banners now surround the bay. 

 

As Clutie has become more powerful within the region, new “laws” have sprouted up, to include a limited tolerance for what Clutie’s religion deems frivolous behaviors: singing, dancing, and generally happy existence….something Haughts have done for generations on the Highlands. Clutie’s followers, men and women who had previously coexisted peacefully with Haughts, now kill and die in the name of what Nicole believes is an angry and superstitious Lord.

 

Reverend Clutie’s wife, Constance, has begun preaching to the women of the clans about the influence of the devil in their lives. She keeps a tight rein on their fears by speaking of souls sold or traded, and witches holding congress among them. Neighbors eye neighbors suspiciously and already one woman has been killed as a witch, a valuable healer lost to the clans.

 

The fight became personal when Clutie pointed his gnarled finger toward the bluffs. Until now, Nicole and Aileen praised God that they found comfort and love in each others arms. Ironically, the silver lining to Aileen’s mauling at the teeth of the wolf is that no man showed interest in her as a wife. They’ve been left alone in the bluffs and have been blissfully happy together. But now...Clansmen who are already suspicious of Nicole’s miraculous survival after several near death experiences wonder if both she and Aileen are more than they appear. 

 

The preaching of Pastor Clutie casts a dark cloud over their lives. “Th' unnatural bairn o' Conor Haught. Whit keeps her alive? The De’il. A deal wi' th' de'il is whit keeps th' Haughts! And Aileen! Does she lie wi’ th’ witch?” 

 

Clutie bellows and his followers cringe in fear. A deal with the devil? But Nicole  has survived so many near misses. And then there’s Aileen.  _ The wolf tore out her throat _ , they whisper,  _ and Nicole healed it with a touch _ .  _ What are they?  _

 

With a deep, meaningful kiss and a finger stroke down Aileen’s scarred cheek, Nicole mounts her horse. “A loue ye, Aileen,” she promises, “Ah wull come back tae ye.” Aileen hands her up the hardwood staff and Nicole wheels the horse around; with a final glance over her shoulder she kicks the beast away from the hut, and her love.  

 

Nicole gallops through the heather towards the bay, her blue and green tartan cloak flying out behind her. She can see the smoke on the horizon from the battle and clears her mind of fear. Nicole’s never been afraid to die, she’s not even sure that she  _ can _ die, and she intends to try for Clutie himself or his vile wife before the day is done. Should she be successful, she’ll race for home, collect Aileen and spirit them away somewhere together. 

 

************

 

Nicole arrives at the battle and circles the field. The green and blue of the Haught clan ripples like waves over the field, but much of it is marred with red stains. The dead lie everywhere and Nicole’s blood boils in rage as she drives her steed through the crowd of fighters, striking indiscriminately at any black and red clad person she sees.

On a hilltop, within the low stone walled yard of a modest church, a warrior observes the battle. Her helmet resembles the head of a wolf, jaws agape to reveal dark brown eyes and sharp features. Slender, muscled arms bely her strength and abilities, but the carefully tended broadsword she holds lightly by her side speaks volumes. Dressed in hardened leather armor with strategically placed metal plates, she cuts an intimidating form. 

 

“There she is,” points out the striking blond woman standing beside the warrior, indicating Nicole just as she strikes the brains from a Clutie clansman’s skull. 

  
Inside her helmet, the warrior grins. “She doesn’t know, does she? She fights on pure rage and instinct.”

 

Clutie recoils. “The stupid savages who live in this time are too interested in self preservation to focus their efforts on the eradication of this...abomination.”

 

The warrior woman turns to look at Clutie. “Abomination?” she questions. “Are we Immortals not all cut from the same cloth? Yourself included, I believe.”

 

Clutie sneers, not looking away from Nicole for a minute. “My work here requires that I stay out of the fray, Amanda. Our truce is in place as we stand within this hallowed ground. You kill the Haught, and leave here, with her power. Our time will come, it is agreed?” 

 

Amanda grunts and spins her sword, throwing back her shoulders and rolling her neck, she looks sideways at Clutie. “Oh yes, Clutie, our time will come.  _ There can be only one _ !” With a yell she leaps astride her horse, its back swathed in the red and black of the Clutie clan, and gallops towards Nicole. 

 

************

 

Everything is red. Gore sprays across Nicole’s face and arms. Her staff runs with blood. Her horse’s forelegs are crimson as the steed rears and slashes with his razor sharp hooves. Red and black Clutie, and blue and green Haught tartan become a brownish red haze across Nicole’s vision as with gritted teeth and only the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears, she avenges her father’s...her clansmen’s deaths. 

 

And then, white.

 

Amanda strikes Nicole with the flat of her broadsword, hard across her lower back. Nicole coughs and nearly falls from her horse, stunned into the full awareness of her plight. 

 

She wonders why she isn’t dead as she wheels her horse around to face her antagonist, fear turning her blood to ice at the sight of the armor clad warrior in the wolf helm. The warrior pounds a fist into her chest as she yells a challenge at Nicole.

 

“For Clutie! Fight me, for there can be only one!”

 

Amanda leaps from her horse and charges Nicole, who can’t take the time to try to interpret that challenge, as she’s already fighting for her life. She too dismounts, swinging both legs over one side of the horse to land, balanced in a crouch. She grasps her staff in both hands and holds it in front of her chest, easily parrying Amanda’s sword stroke even as she swings the blade downward in a two-handed chop. 

 

Blue sparks fly when the weapons connect and Nicole freezes, momentarily awed by the phenomenon, just long enough for Amanda to cut a wicked slash across her bicep.

 

“Och!” Nicole hisses, taking two steps backwards to buy herself some space. She needs to keep her hands on the staff so she can’t even clap a palm to the wound and stanch the flow of blood down her arm. 

 

The wound, however, serves to ground her. Her fear evaporates as enraged, Nicole presses directly into Amanda’s fighting space. Sure, the other woman is armor clad and wielding a sword, and certainly her helm is intimidating, but Nicole’s fought wolves before….and cheated death more than once. This knowledge makes her fearless and she slides her hands down the full length of her staff to the end, swinging it like a hard-as-iron six foot long club, just as Amanda pulls her sword arm back for a swing. 

 

With a whistling sound, the staff cracks into Amanda’s throat, just below the wolf’s steel jaw, and Nicole is pleased to see her opponent's head fly clear off of her body. The corpse drops to its knees, the sword tumbling from her hand, and collapses bonelessly to the ground. 

 

Almost immediately, the sky blackens with clouds. Blue lightning begins to strike the ground, and Nicole can hear the sounds of battle around her devolve into frightened screams, as fighters run for cover, some crossing themselves, Haughts and Cluties dropping their weapons and fleeing in abject terror. 

 

Nicole watches, open-mouthed, as Amanda’s decapitated body rises from the ground and a thick, crackling blue cloud of energy is expelled from the neck, streaking towards Nicole. She has only a moment to make a feeble attempt at covering her eyes when the blue wave of energy strikes her. 

 

Every muscle in Nicole’s body flexes as one. Her spine bows backwards and her arms fling out as the power courses through her. It’s like every one of the best feelings she’s ever felt bombarding her at once. It’s the exhilarating feeling of summiting an impossible climb. It’s the joy of being in love. Striding through her land, breathing clean air, feeling alive.  

  
NIcole screams out as the energy subsides; men and women of all clans who didn’t flee are kneeling around her in awe. As she shakes off the experience and looks around her she notices Pastor Clutie’s wife watching her from the church yard. With a roar, Nicole charges towards Clutie but the distance is too far to close in time. Nicole is almost certain that Clutie’s eyes glow red in the distance as she stares balefully at Nicole, then turns tail and disappears, never to be seen in the Highlands again. 

 

**____________________________________________________________________________**

 

**Colonial Massachusetts: 1692**

 

It’s easier than Nicole imagined, travelling to England and finding, through word of mouth, a likely ship to the New World. She’d heard of the religious emigration and Plymouth was attractive to her, a means to finally escape the memory of her beloved Aileen. Scotland being as small as it is, word travels among the clansmen of the ageless female shepherd living alone in the bluffs, and Nicole fears that one day her immortality will be discovered, and she’ll have to kill or be killed. Or pretend to die, as the case may be. 

 

An entire land, unexplored and unsettled sound quite appealing to Nicole. She locates the ship called Mayflower and slips aboard with the other passengers, speaking with no one, except to answer only when asked that she is “Thomas’ wife.” The Mayflower passengers are a pious lot and it’s not their way to inquire into the business of a husband and wife, or even to talk to a woman alone. Nicole keeps herself out of sight until the ship arrives in Plymouth. Once there, she allows herself to be recorded by the registrar who asks “Thomas Tinker?’ when she names Thomas. She nods mutely, and quickly “dies” for the purpose of record keeping, in the first sickness that spreads through the colony. 

 

By 1692 Nicole has settled comfortably into a tiny stone cabin she has built with her own hands just within a wooded area outside Salem Town. She keeps sheep and has a reputation for crafting fine sheep's milk cheese. Nicole would rather not be quite so notorious, but she needs coin to live and her cheese brings it. She’s churning outside her cabin when Elinor, the wife of Gregory the blacksmith, approaches up the path. 

 

“Good day, Nicole,” Elinor calls brightly, her basket swinging from her arm.

 

Nicole looks up and can’t resist an admiring scan of Elinor’s figure. Today she’s wearing a bright green waistcoat over her shift, with a crisp white coif atop her blond curls. Elinor’s long apron looks clean, and Nicole knows she’s one of the few women in Salem Town with more than one or two fine dresses. She also knows that Elinor comes to buy cheese more often than anyone should. 

 

“And a good day to you, Elinor,” Nicole replies, her brogue softened from the years abroad and a conscious effort to blend in. She flashes a dimple at Elinor that causes the other woman to stare at her a beat too long to be proper. Nicole thinks briefly of Aileen, with a pang of guilt. It’s been so long though, since she’s appreciated the attention of a beautiful woman, and Elinor is already settling herself comfortably on the stone porch of Nicole’s house for a nice long chat. 

 

“That’s fine,” Elinor sighs, stretching out her legs and crossing them primly at the ankle. “Isn’t today a beautiful day?” Nicole nods in agreement and continues to churn, content to let Elinor gossip about the goings-on in Salem Town as she gets her work done. 

 

She pauses however. “Ah Elinor, I’ve been a negligent hostess. Can I offer you some refreshment? I have sheep’s milk or a bit of cheese and bread, perhaps some cold water from the well?” 

 

“I’d not say no to that fine cheese you make,” Elinor laughs, and Nicole brings her some on a plate. Elinor tucks into the food, sighing happily. “Ach Nicole, you make the finest cheese. How are you not a helpmate to some lucky man? I know Love Brewster still seeks a wife. And a fine man too, pious and hardworking!” 

 

“It’s just hard to imagine, another man...after William,” Nicole lies, sniffing convincingly and averting her eyes heavenward. She’s learned quickly to make accomodations for Puritan lifestyles, a small price to pay for her privacy, and it was easy enough to craft the story of her dead husband William the shepherd, lost far too soon in a fall down a ravine. 

 

“God rest his soul, and bless him for teaching me the care of these beasts, without whom I would be destitute!” Nicole clasps her hands together in religious fervor. 

 

Elinor jumps to her feet, covering Nicole’s hands with her own. “Forgive me Nicole, how unkind of me to mention marriage to you, with the pain of the loss of William so fresh in your mind! Allow me to comfort you!” And with that, Elinor pulls Nicole face down into her bosoms, humming soothingly and stroking Nicole’s neck. 

 

And Nicole, in a moment of weakness, can’t help herself. She sobs loudly, “Oh Elinor, I just miss him so much! Oh! I think I will faint!” She allows her body to go limp, and Elinor catches her with a gasp, guiding her down to the steps and holding her close. “That’s right, Nicole,” she soothes, “Just get it all out! The Lord and Savior will hear your cries and bring solace to you in your hour of despair.” 

 

Elinor leans close to Nicole and lays soft kisses along her forehead and cheeks. “Hush, hush,” she whispers stroking Nicole’s face, then pulls back slightly to look at Nicole with trepidation in her eyes. Nicole gazes up at her, only warmth visible in her expression, and Elinor blushes, the fear evident in her expression changing slowly to one of adoration and curiosity. Her eyes flick over Nicole’s features.

 

“Your hair color is so lovely,” she admires quietly. “You’re so... tall...and...and your lips…”

 

Nicole knows this could be her undoing, but she’s been alive for 161 years at this point, and isn’t the worst at reading a situation. She pushes up and kisses Elinor on the mouth, holding her breath that her instincts were correct and she won’t need to disappear into the woods ahead of a torch wielding mob. She’s rewarded when Elinor kisses her hard back, gasping into her mouth, both of her palms going to the sides of Nicole’s face to grip her closely. 

 

They break away and Nicole looks at Elinor, whose eyes are rolling like a spooked horse. She sits up to place soothing hands on Elinor’s upper arms. “Would you like to come inside?” 

 

************

 

Nicole knows that her dalliance with Elinor is fraught with danger. An uncomfortable amount of attention is being paid to women in Salem Town; at first  _ other _ women are targeted, to include immigrant slaves, the mentally ill and the destitute, but then also women who have the misfortune of merely being unmarried. Men of the clergy and the town leadership give in to the mass hysteria sweeping the area in which women are claiming to have been possessed by a demon or specter, the curse having been placed upon them by a witch.

 

Nicole, as a young woman living alone in the woods, is a likely target. Her very intentional existence on the fringes of Salem Town, trying to fly under the radar, instead draws the attention of the newly initiated Reverend Lawson and his unseemingly beautiful young wife, Constance. 

 

Elinor beseeches her to attend sermon on Sunday. “Nicole,” she pleads, “at least be present there, for though we both will burn in hell one day, your presence at sermon will draw doubt away from you. I would die if they should mark you for a witch.” 

 

“Do you think I’m a witch?” Nicole laughs. “It’s nonsense, this. I’ve seen it before how religion makes men go mad, and I’ll not bring myself willingly into the middle of that. No thank you,” she sings,  “I will stay here with my sheep if you please.” 

 

Elinor loops her hand around Nicole’s wrist and tugs her closer. “I know not what I do, Nicole, but perhaps you are a witch, for when I’m with you I lose my will to be pious and forget how to speak sense.”

 

Within the span of a few weeks, however, three women are hanged for witches. Nicole begins to consider that perhaps she needs to move on, but the temptation of Elinor delays her departure, and that is their undoing. 

 

It’s late on a Sunday and Elinor has come to buy cheese after sermon. They laugh together, in between kisses as Nicole, seated on her bed, slowly disrobes Elinor, first her apron and outer gown, then her long white chemise, petticoat and stockings. By the time Nicole reaches her underpants, Elinor is breathless and flushed. 

 

“Och you’re beautiful,” Nicole breathes, with a bit of her brogue escaping in her relaxed state, sliding the palm of her hand along the front of Elinor’s underpants. She places both hands on Elinor’s hips and brings her closer, kissing her stomach and between her breasts as Elinor stands between her knees. She slowly slides Elinor’s underpants down her legs and buries her nose between her thighs, breathing heat over Elinor’s sex. 

 

“Jesus Christ my Lord and Savior,” Elinor groans, reaching for Nicole and winding her fingers into fiery red hair.

 

And it is in this position that Constance Lawson discovers them as she barges into Nicole’s house, a basket on her arm, a little too conveniently. Constance’s jaw and basket drop in symphony, but a flat gleam of triumph settles in her eyes. 

 

“Satan! He has tempted you Elinor, a pious woman of the church! You lie with this...witch!” she screeches. Elinor screams and grabs for her skirt to cover herself and Nicole jumps to her feet. The sun streams through the open door behind Constance and Nicole is temporarily blinded as she grabs for her ever present hardwood staff, still not certain who or what has intruded into her home. 

 

“You!” she hisses, in recognition. “Constance Clutie! If anyone is a witch, it is you!” Nicole brandishes her staff. “I should kill you where you stand!” she yells, but a scream draws her focus back to Elinor who is scrambling into her clothing, white faced and disheveled next to Constance. 

 

“No…” Elinor starts, but casts a brokenhearted apologetic look at Nicole as she turns to Constance. “Sister Lawson! She...she bewitched me!” 

 

“God did not spare angels when they sinned,” Constance raves, baring sharp teeth “yet cast them into hell so they burn! And so shall you  _ Nicole Haught _ !”

 

Constance looks at wide-eyed Elinor with disgust. “Sister, your soul may yet be saved. Run for your husband and mine and tell them of this witch. Bade them come at once, that she may be dispatched from our midst, a scourge upon this town!” Elinor bolts out the door without a backwards look, leaving Constance and Nicole alone. 

 

Now Constance looks fully upon Nicole with her red lips creased into a smirk. “I hope it was worth it, Haught, the pleasures of her flesh. She’ll die upon the hanging tree today thinking her soul can be saved, but there’s no god to save it is there?”

 

“What are you?” Nicole grits between bared teeth, her staff still held firmly before her. “Beast or woman? Witch? Are you the  _ Baobhan Sith _ ? Why do you hunt me?”

 

“ _ There can be only one _ ,” Constance says mockingly. “The power is wasted on you anyhow, you don’t even know what it’s for.” She draws a shimmering blue dagger from beneath her modest Puritan apron. _ It looks like ice _ , thinks Nicole.

 

Spinning the blade on her palm with practiced ease, Constance drops into a crouch, seemingly uninhibited by the layers of clothing swaddling her. Nicole unconsciously assumes her own fighting stance, her staff gripped tightly in her right hand, the bludgeoning end resting lightly in her left. Her cabin isn’t an ideal place to fight with such a weapon, however, too small inside with room only for her bed and a small table, and the staff is nearly six feet long. 

 

Constance moves faster than Nicole even thought possible for a human and slashes rapidly at Nicole’s neck. She just manages to parry the stroke, catching the dagger on her staff, even as the tip of the blade nicks her throat. Just as in her fight with Amanda, so many years ago, blue sparks flash where the weapons impact each other, but again Nicole has no time to consider why. In the limited space afforded her, she can only block and push. 

 

The shouts of men sound from outside and Constance almost sighs in disappointment. “You’ll die yet,” she promises, “I only hoped it could be at my blade now, so that I too might be done with this tiresome Pastor’s wife charade. Nonetheless, your power will be mine tonight when I separate your head from your body.” 

  
With this proclamation, Constance slides her knife into her apron and throws herself backwards out of Nicole’s front door, screaming apparently in abject terror. 

 

“Save me! My soul! The witch attacked me!” Constance throws herself on her knees in front of her husband, the stern-faced Reverend Lawson, and the townspeople of Salem Town who have come to assist him, some actually carrying pitchforks and torches. 

 

But Constance’s pleading sobs turn into an indignant and confused squeak as she’s pulled roughly to her feet by her husband. He holds her at arm’s length and looks her over before he speaks.

 

“Matthew: ‘watch and pray that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit is indeed willing but the flesh is weak.’ That day I met you your beauty somehow clouded my sight. I have eyes only for the Lord, witch! Sister Elinor tells us that you turned to a wolf before her eyes, you bared your teeth as an animal does...with fangs!”

 

“Husband, no!” Constance cowers, but the Reverend slaps her hard across her face and she drops to her knees, holding her cheek. Nicole watches as Constance’s hand slips into her apron and then she uncoils like a snake, rising up and slashing across her husband’s throat with her blue dagger. The Reverend, stunned, wraps his palm around his throat, even as his mouth opens and a thick gout of blood gushes from his lips. 

 

“Never. Strike. Me.” Constance says quietly. With a blue-eyed glare in Nicole’s direction Constance shakes her entire body, a current running down her spine as she transforms into the silver wolf. Screams ring out as she snaps her jaws at the dumbstruck townspeople, then leaps away into the woods. 

 

Nicole watches the scene unfold from her stone steps like a portal has opened directly into hell, and she decides that Constance is providing just the distraction she needs to melt away into the woods. Holding her staff, she backs slowly into the door, and with a final regretful look at her modest home, scrambles quickly out the back window and makes her own ignominious escape into the woods.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Newfoundland: 1880**

 

Wynonna pushes through the door of a saloon, newly built to serve the burgeoning population of farmers and miners overtaking Newfoundland. Buildings are sprouting up everywhere and her forest is thinning as trees are logged to keep up with the demand for lumber.

It feels like you can’t swing a dead cat these days without hitting another person, and Wynonna’s not too keen on it if she’s being honest.

Any eyes that turned to see who enters quickly move away; Wynonna’s built a reputation for herself outside of her trapping business as a bounty hunter of sorts. In a town where people mind their own business, many a cheating husband or gambling scalliwag has found himself on the wrong end of Wynonna’s Smith and Wesson Model 3. One won’t see much of Wynonna in the town, but when there’s someone to be found...and maybe _disappeared_ , townspeople know to ask her first.

There’s a nagging twitch at the top of her spine and she pokes at it, annoyed, but dismisses it as a symptom of her general misanthropy. Keeping an eye on her surroundings, Wynonna slides up to the bar and knocks her knuckles on the counter, demanding the barkeep’s attentions. “Gimme a whisky,” she says. The bartender turns to look at Wynonna, causing her to sit up a little straighter and pay attention, even as the tic grows more insistent. Tall and lithe, her strong form is evident even in a high-necked black dress with a flowing long skirt. Her long blond hair is collected into a low bun on the the back of her neck. An apron is tied around slim hips. The bartender maintains eye contact with Wynonna as she lays a thick glass in front of her, tipping the whiskey bottle over it until it’s three fingers full.

“You’re a woman,” Wynonna observes roughly. “As are you,” the barkeep laughs, extending her hand. “Eliza Shapiro, at your service.”

Wynonna pulls off her horsehide coat and lays it on the seat beside her, permitting easy access to her holstered revolver slung at her hip. She casually pushes up her sleeves and reaches out to shake Eliza’s hand; knowing better than to underestimate a pretty woman, she won’t allow the handshake to linger longer than necessary. “Wynonna.”

“Just Wynonna, eh?” Eliza cocks her head with interest, her eyes doing a quick scan from Wynonna’s head to her arms, resting upon the bar. Before Wynonna can pull away, Eliza has grasped her forearm, and traces a finger along the scars she finds there. Wynonna offers nothing, taking her whiskey in the other hand and throwing it back all at once. It’s not the first time a woman has taken interest in her scars and Wynonna takes the time to look Eliza over appreciatively.

“Five gone. _There can be only one_ ,” Eliza says, and Wynonna feels it suddenly, the twitch into her neck roaring into a full on buzz as she moves quickly to jump off the stool, pulling her arm away from Eliza. “What did you say?” she demands, her hand on the grip of the pistol, already loosed in her holster. “Sit down, please,” Eliza replies with quiet authority, and Wynonna observes that a tiny Colt Derringer .22 has materialized out of nowhere into the palm of her hand. Although she knows the gun can’t kill her, for the first time in her life, Wynonna feels compelled to listen. “What do you know?” she hisses.

“Meet me here when I close, or stay and wait if you please,” Eliza offers. “We’ll talk then, but don’t get drunk. And never, ever think to draw in my saloon again.”

 

*************

 

Wynonna sits at the bar, spinning a coin and sipping her whiskey, trying to make it last.

The last patrons have left and Eliza bolts the door behind them; wiping her hands on a rag, she begins to upend chairs onto the tables, then pauses to look at Wynonna.

“You could help you know.”

Wynonna turns on her seat and rests her elbows behind her on the bar. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now,” she says.

“You can try, but I think you know I can’t just...die,” laughs Eliza, and she’s not even concerned. “I’m going to help you understand what you are...what we are,” she emphasizes. “You can only hide for so long, Wynonna. The world is changing around us. You need to understand how to stay alive so you can choose that fate for others too.”

Eliza finishes stacking the chairs. “Come on,” she says, disappearing into the back room.

Wynonna is still suspicious. After almost two hundred years in the wilds of the North she’s never convinced that someone isn’t going to appear out of nowhere and try to take her head. That’s the one piece of this mystery that she knows for certain: if she loses her head, she’ll die.

Wynonna’s been stabbed, shot and even drowned in a freezing river once. Each time the bullet hole or stab wound just sealed up, and the water passed through her lungs as through the gills of a fish. She can’t die by normal means, but with every other Immortal that she kills, she heals faster and gets better at...everything.

Fighting, fucking, surviving...Wynonna owns that. She’s certain that each kill imbues her with skills and power she never had before. But she’s never _wanted_ to kill them...she’s never intentionally sought out the other Immortals. For whatever reason they’re willing to brave the Canadian wilderness...different races, different languages, exotic attire and diverse weaponry, but the intention is always the same: to come looking for her... and they always say that cursed phrase, “ _There can be only one._ ”

“You’re damn right,” she’ll agree, as their heads roll.

Eliza’s voice brings her back to the present. “If I wanted to kill you, Wynonna, I would have tried already. Come in here.”

Wynonna shrugs and makes her way into the back room of the saloon. It’s a largish space with crates stacked to the sides, but the center of the room is packed dirt floor and Eliza stands there barefoot, clad only in a pair of bloomers and a loose chemise.

“You have amazing taste in underwear,” Wynonna quips, “but if you wanted to fuck, you could have told me hours ago.”  

Eliza rolls her eyes. “Don’t think I haven’t lain with my share of smug bastards,” she retorts. “No, we’re going to fight and I’m going to talk.” Eliza brings her hands up into the light now and Wynonna sees that she’s wearing brass knuckles on both fists

“Huh, that’s new.” Wynonna observes, as she slowly unbuttons her heavy shirt. When she too is undressed down to her shift and buckskin pants, she steps into the center of the room and faces Eliza.

“Where’s your weapon, Immortal?” Eliza asks suddenly, “The short sword. I know you carry it.”

Wynonna reaches into her waistband at the hip and draws the sword from its concealed location, strapped along the inside of her left pant leg. Eliza smiles.

“It’s a good weapon, the short sword. It shines in close combat situations... as your scarification indicates you’ve found out.”

Wynonna growls as she raises her sword. “Brass knuckles though. That seems a bit impractical. You can’t slash or shoot with them, you have to get too close!”

Wynonna spins her sword and chops at Eliza. She’s surprised when Eliza easily deflects the blow off the back of her fist. Blue sparks fly as the blade meets the metal knuckles.  

“I wasn’t even trying to hurt you,” Wynonna insists. “Why not choose another weapon? With those knuckles you’ll be dead befor….ooof!”

There’s a cracking sound and Wynonna finds herself laid out on the ground, ears ringing, her jaw throbbing and swelling already. Gingerly prodding at the injury, she runs her tongue between her cheek and gum and tastes the blood welling there. Eliza kicks her sword away and kneels into her sternum.

“I’ve taken the heads of seven immortals with a well placed punch to the throat,” Eliza says, and she’s not boasting. “Never underestimate an opponent, Wynonna, whatever weapon they bring to the fight. The weapons choose us, just as our immortality has. I have been one with these,” she holds up her fists, “for over one thousand years.”

Eliza winks at Wynonna as she bounces to her feet and strides out to the bar. “Lesson one is concluded, and I didn’t even break a sweat.”  

“I want a rematch,” Wynonna pouts later, as she holds a cloth filled with snow against her jaw. Eliza laughs.

“Oh we’ll have plenty of chances to fight, but I could see I needed to get the point across to you, and fast.”  She places a whiskey in front of Wynonna, “Have your drink while we wait for my friend. Then I will tell you what I know of the Immortals.”

* * *

 

**The Pony Express, California: 1860**

 

Nicole stands in the stirrups and smacks her horse on the flank with her hat, urging him to a full gallop. She’s got eight miles to go before she changes horses again in Strawberry, then seventy miles to Sacramento and she’s done her route. At $100 a month, the Pony Express has provided Nicole with a surefire source of income and savings, and as a bonus, her fellow riders are too busy working to concern themselves with her business.

Ten miles between stations at a full gallop, a fresh horse, lock on the mailbags and go. Nicole had walked into the hiring office at Fort Laramie where she’d heard that a Mr. Randy Nedley was hurting for riders on the mail trail. If you could ride fast and live rough, and you didn’t weigh more than 125 pounds, you could make real good money.

Nicole’s been riding a horse for 320 years or so, and fending for herself in the wild for almost as long, but she’s certainly not going to say that in an interview. Nedley looks her over and says, “I ain’t gonna ask. You get my mail from St. Joseph to Sacramento and we’ll do just fine. If anything happens, you and the horse die before that mail goes missing, are we understood?”

Nicole nods and speaks the oath, promising to abstain from profanity, liquor and fighting... _specifically with other employees of the Company_ she adds in her head, ‘cause sometimes fighting seems to come to her. She collects her revolver and her water bag and gets to work.

It’s hard and often dangerous. There are people along the trail that would be happy to see a rider go down, for the mail or the horse, or just for the rider’s revolver. There are wild animals including bears and wolves, but just ordinary wolves and Nicole’s faced worse. She’s seen a lot of the country now and it’s impressive, but nothing compares to her native Scotland and she vows that once she has enough money saved, she’ll book her way back home.

The mail delivered to Sacramento, Nicole slings her small package of belongings and her walking stick over her shoulder and takes a day to wander around the town. The new state capitol building is under construction and she pauses to watch the heavy stone being moved.

She’s just found a comfortable spot to recline against a tree and unwraps a sandwich from its oilcloth when three things happen almost simultaneously: a vibrating tremor makes the hair on her neck stand up, her mind switches into flight mode, and a soft voice intrudes upon her privacy.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but did I see you ride in with the Pony Express?”

Nicole’s head snaps up to see a mustachioed gentleman in a sharp vest and coat combination, two pistols slung low upon his hips. He’s relaxed yet alert looking and Nicole’s heart rate increases as her hand shifts imperceptibly closer to her stick. But she’s too slow even for this dapper cowboy; his hands blur to the butts of his pistols as he quietly says, “Miss Nicole is it? I regret that I have caught you unawares, but I _promise you_ that I mean you no harm. Might I perhaps purchase you a whiskey? I know a saloon nearby that won’t question your attire as one of the fairer sex. We can drink in peace and I can explain myself.”

“How do you know my name?” Nicole whispers, looking around her. Every hair on her head feels like it’s standing on end.

“I know more than just your name,” the cowboy says softly, “I know the names of many like us...Immortals,” and Nicole’s eyes go wide as she scrambles to her feet.

  
“Who are you?” she demands, and this time she doesn’t try to hide her grip on the stick. The cowboy’s blue eyes twinkle as he removes his hat, and with a bow and a flourish says, “Why, I have been remiss! Allow me to introduce myself: John Henry Holliday ma’am.”

 

************

 

Nicole follows John Henry, or “Doc” as he prefers to be called, to the River City Saloon. She sits with her back to the wall in a dark corner, and watches as Doc orders them both a drink. He returns to their table and hands hers over, waiting for her to toast with him before throwing back the whiskey.

Smacking his lips, Doc uses two fingers to smooth his moustache, then looks at Nicole. “You must have many questions.”

“Where did you come from?” Nicole begins hesitantly.

“Do you mean today, or _where_?” Doc answers mysteriously. “Look, I will not waste your time. I am what you are, but I promise you I mean you no harm. This curse we live under will eventually force all of our hands to do the deed that many...most of us really, desire to escape. Kill another person in cold blood. But I fear that you do not know much of it, as your self-imposed isolation has been both a blessing and a curse to you.”

Doc raises two fingers to the barkeep, then continues his story. Nicole finds herself captivated by this charismatic man, he sure can spin a yarn, but she keeps her stick gripped tightly by her side nonetheless.

“I came originally from what was Wessex, in England, where I was born around 755 if I remember my history well. I was fortunate to have a teacher come to me when I was 14, for I killed my first Immortal then...with this.” Doc palms the ivory head of a large knife he keeps sheathed along his left hip.

“As an aside, Miss Nicole, have you noticed how the weapons change? They evolve as we do. Immortals talk amongst themselves you know, those that survive, and legends grow around us as well. I heard tell of a red-haired Scottish woman, taller than many men and skilled in combat with a hardwood staff. The weapons choose us and just as we progress over time, so must they.

“Now as to that mysterious woman, there can be only one...of you,” Doc quips, his eyes sparkling, even as Nicole stiffens at the echo of decades past that rushes by her at that turn of phrase. “From what I know,” Doc rests his hands on the table and leans slightly in, “you have fought more than one Immortal to the point of incapacitating them, then...disappeared.”

Nicole sits silent, neither confirming nor denying this fact. “In fact,” Doc continues musingly, “I know of only one other Immortal woman, and she’s the only one with the same promising energy that you show,” he shakes his head “but reckless, that one…”

“How...are we? And how many?” Nicole asks wonderingly, her mind racing. After so many years of trying to merely exist, and possibly understand the purpose behind her eternalness, she rides into Sacramento of all places and finds answers.

“There are not many of us left, and it seems that no new Immortals are presenting themselves. The time of the Gathering is drawing closer.” Doc replies a little sadly, almost to himself.

“No one knows who or what made the laws of the Game, as we call it. They’ve been passed down over generations and I have no doubt that the semantics have changed, but the majority of us follow these rules as history has shown that it is to your detriment not to, if you do not want to cause a volcanic eruption, for example.”

“That happened?” Nicole asks, spellbound like a child at her father’s knee, her mistrust of this stranger almost forgotten.

“Indeed,” Doc intones, his frown disappearing under his mustache. “In the ancient Roman city of Pompeii where one Immortal chose to take another on hallowed ground, in a holy temple, upsetting the balance of the game and killing many, many mortals.

“Many Immortals just gave up after years of hiding and running, and allowed themselves to be killed. I’ve met a few who seek peaceful coexistence with other Immortals, or teach and train. Some have hidden themselves on hallowed ground, in the hopes that they will be safe there. But one has committed her entire existence to hunting and taking Immortals, and considers herself bound by _no rules_.

“Clutie,” Nicole breathes, “she’s the one isn’t she? That demon...where I come from we thought she was the _Baobhan Sith_ , do you know what that is?”

“Ah yes.” Doc leans back in his chair. “The succubus vampire. Well she is not exactly that although over the years, many a man has wed her thinking her to be a sweet thing and only to wind up dead. Of course over the years I have heard many such stories of unnatural creatures. Do you know anything of how the power works, Nicole?”

Nicole shakes her head. “I know only that it began for me during a clan war started by Clutie’s people against Clan Haught. A warrior in a wolf helm, fighting for Clutie’s side tried to kill me. She told me “ _There can be only one_.” Nicole raises her chin and straightens her spine. “I beheaded her with my staff. Tha’ Clutie is the devil,” she hisses, her brogue slipping through in her rage, after all these years. “She tried to kill my love. I never understood: why me?”

“Do you recall, Nicole, when you killed this wolf warrior, the storm that followed? The lightning and the feeling of power entering your body? This is known as the Quickening. Every Immortal who kills another Immortal takes their power into their own body. With that power comes an essence of their skill as well.”

“I do recall,” replies Nicole, “I’ve only killed the one.” She ducks her head, shame reddening her cheeks. “I don’t want to kill, Doc, but they came for what I love.” She spits out the name. “Clutie, I would kill without regret.”

Doc rests his palms on the table and sits quietly until Nicole looks up at him. “Nicole, There will come a time when those of us who are left will meet for the Gathering, in what is now the wilds of Canada. A spiritual triangle exists there containing a balance of good and evil power, in a region defined by the Ghost River. In this Gathering, the remaining Immortals will fight to the death. The last one standing will receive the Prize.”

“And what is the Prize?”

“Unlimited power over the world, and unlimited knowledge of the universe. Only one who longs for a peaceful existence for all should earn this Prize.”

For the first time since they’ve sat there, Doc’s voice grows angry.

“Clutie must _never_ win, Nicole. If she does, mortal man will suffer an eternity of darkness. Just as my teacher did for me so many years ago, I will train with you now. When the time comes you must travel to the Ghost River Triangle and kill Clutie.”

* * *

 

**Newfoundland, Eliza’s Bar: 1880**

 

Wynonna feels like she needs something, fresh air or another drink, or to wake up from this weird dream she’s having in which a beautiful blond barmaid has just told her that she used to fight for blood in ancient Rome, an Immortal witch has twisted magic to eventually take over the world, and...most disturbingly, Wynonna is the one to end this curse.

“You’re an ancient Roman Gladiator,” she complains to Eliza, “so why can’t you be the one to kill this witch?”

“I’m not a Gladiator,” Eliza answers, “I was a slave.” She looks thoughtful as she adds, “Gladiators at least got body armor. We only got caestus.

“But no matter. Clutie’s is different from us. Her power balance leans immediately towards evil because of what she did to acquire it. Clutie was the first of us to recognize that. To be fair, the unwritten laws of our existence demand that we kill. But Clutie killed a Shaman on hallowed ground, in order to take on her more malleable powers: over the years she has brought paranoia and terror to the communities in which she has settled, through shapeshifting, and some say she can commune with demons.

“When the Gathering happens, Wynonna, it will come to the Ghost River Triangle, the one place on this Earth where portals may open to Elysium or Tartarus, Heaven or Hell. You came into being there for a reason, I’m afraid. Those of us who came early have always known that when the time of the Gathering comes, the energy will point to one possible winner. I see that potential in you. My role here is to help and guide, and then if the Gods are willing I can at last rest…”

Eliza’s eyes rise over Wynonna’s shoulder and her lips curl into a familiar smile. “Ahh, Xavier, you’re here.”

Wynonna turns to take in a handsome man in the thick buffalo coat of the North-West Mounted Police. She springs to her feet.

“You called the law?!” she accuses, “If you think I killed that whiskey trader...well he probably deserved it but also, you’ll have to prove it.” She takes a few steps away from this Xavier character, turning her side towards the bar for a little concealment.

“Wynonna, calm yourself,” Eliza chastises. “Do you think after all I told you I would have you taken in by the law? Xavier is one of us, a trusted friend of mine...and possibly the last Immortal to come into being.”

 _Another_ , Wynonna thinks, exasperated at this point with her inability to use her body’s natural alarms as warning. _There’s as many goddamned Immortals as settlers in this town. I can’t tell one from the next._

“That’s a fine bruise you have there, Miss Wynonna,” Xavier pronounces expressionlessly, “I take it you thought to challenge Eliza in combat?”

“If we’d been in my woods I would have had her,” Wynonna mutters to herself, and Eliza raises an eyebrow in Xavier’s direction.

“You see?” Eliza says, “She’s the one.”

 

************

Xavier is an easy 6’3” and solid muscle. Wynonna’s four days into her training with Eliza and as her back hits the packed dirt floor….again, she laments aloud that she should have never walked into the saloon.

Kneeling down next to Wynonna’s gasping form, Xavier loops his forearm around her throat and flexes; blackness starts to close in on her vision. Wynonna scrabbles uselessly at his arms, her eyes rolling up to catch a glimpse of his stoic and expressionless face. She gives up, dropping her arms to her side and just before she loses consciousness, Eliza intervenes. Wynonna sits up, rubbing her throat and glaring at Xavier, who squats on his heels with his elbows on his knees.

“Wynonna. Xavier can’t choke you to death, you know that. But if you let him get to Peacemaker, you’ll die. If that gun ever separates your head from your body…..”

“Who ever heard of a gun taking off someone’s head! Especially a gun that ridiculous!” Wynonna gestures angrily at Xavier’s long barreled Cavalry Standard Colt Peacemaker.

“I’ve been shot before. I can get to my blade before I die of a gunshot.”

Xavier leans in and prods hard at the dark purple-green bruise, still adorning Wynonna’s cheek and jaw, earning a hiss from Wynonna. “Who would have thought that a pair of brass knucks could take off a head? Yet here’s Eliza.”

“You’re doing it again, Wynonna,” Eliza chastises. “Underestimating the enemy’s weapon.”

“I heard tell of an Immortal who fights with a stick,” Xavier offers.

“That one, yes, the Scots woman,” Eliza confirms. “Another Immortal with great potential to defeat Clutie...but she has her weaknesses. Wanting to kill Clutie out of vengeance alone may not be enough to defeat her. John Henry went to this one, to determine her potential. We shall see if she survives to the time of the Gathering.”

 

************

“I’m not sure even a drink is a good enough payback for the thrashing you gave me tonight, Xavier,” Wynonna laughs, holding out her arms and admiring a large red weal across her wrist. They’re just over three months into training together and while Wynonna’s the uncontested winner when it comes to fighting with their weapons, Xavier still has her beat at hand-to-hand.

It doesn’t help that every time Xavier wraps her in what’s supposed to be a murderous grip and pins her down, Wynonna feels an unfamiliar warmth course through her. Xavier’s like no other person she’s ever met before. He’s quiet and observant...just _present_ , the perfect counter to her brash, nervous energy.

And Wynonna’s terrified by what she feels around him because she knows that she can’t have anything. Nothing on god’s green earth was ever meant to be hers to rely on... _except my blade of course_ , she thinks. No, she can’t let down her guard.

Wynonna considers Xavier, his back to her as her reaches around a small cabinet and removes a couple of glasses and a mostly full bottle of whiskey. It’s her first time in his room, and his body looks relaxed, oblivious to her train of thought. Her eyes trace the line of his back as it rises out of his shirt, skin smooth over the knobs of his spine, up into his neatly cropped hair. She imagines her blade splitting that skin, and shivers, shaking her head, settling her expression as Xavier turns back to her and sets the glassware on the table. He pours them each a drink and smiles softly at Wynonna, scaring and thrilling her equally.

“I don’t like to hurt you, Wynonna,” he says quietly, what remains unsaid speaking volumes more than mere words.

“It’s training, Xavier, and also it’s going to hurt a hell of a lot more if someone cuts my head off.” Wynonna tries to sound lighthearted, but her voice is trembling.

Xavier steps close to Wynonna, his deep brown eyes locked on her blue.  He places a hand over hers and speaks quietly. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.

“Ever since I figured out what I was, even before I understood it myself, I never let myself get attached to anyone. That’s not to say that I deprived myself of pleasure and companionship, and I don’t expect the same from you, Wynonna. But what I feel with you is special...you’re special. I have this feeling that you can be the one to do something great, to take away this sadness from the world, if only you’ll believe in yourself too.

“I know that there can be only one. There will come a time when you or I might die but I promise you this. You will never die by my hand.”

Xavier unbuckles his gun belt and rests Peacemaker on the top of the bedside table, stepping away from his Immortal weapon, the equivalent of a wolf baring its throat in supplication. Wynonna places her hand on the revolver and they’re both awed as briefly, it glows gold beneath her grip.

“It’s never done that for me,” Xavier says in a hushed voice, “and I’ve killed three Immortals with it. Only ever blue.” He takes a step back as Wynonna pulls her shortsword. She places it on the table next to Peacemaker, then removes her own gun and lays it atop the two weapons. She moves to stand in front of Xavier.

Unburdened by her weaponry, Wynonna seems almost fragile. Xavier takes in her slim body and sad eyes, the mane of black hair that always flows wildly around her shoulders, and his hands twitch. He can’t help himself when he reaches for her face, caressing along her cheekbone with one finger as his other hand slides lightly into her hair. Xavier waits now, his fingers smoothing gently along her scalp, his eyes on hers, a silent question looming between them.

Wynonna moves closer then, she pushes down his braces, her hands running up his chest to the top button of his shirt, she begins to remove it. She pushes the open shirt off of his shoulders and he shakes it loose from his wrists; his hands, free now, rest upon her shoulders then stroke down her arms.

Xavier’ chest is strong and defined, crisscrossed with old scars. His stomach is flat and curves in a solid plane of muscle into the heavy woolen fabric of his trousers.  Wynonna admires the contrast of her hand on his chest but she slides her palms around his hips to pull herself in closer to him, then rests her head on his collarbone as his own arms come to encircle her shoulders.

“I can’t...I can’t promise you anything, Xavier,” she murmurs, “But I do feel for you, strongly even. ”

She tips her head up to catch Xavier’ eyes, which as usual are looking at her as if they see right into her soul. She thinks she sees the moment when hope transitions into resignation, but Xavier doesn’t pull away.

“I’m in love with you, Wynonna,” Xavier says, “but I’ll take what I can get.”

 

************

 

Wynonna’s never felt cared for before, she’s never made love. Sex has always been about release, about instant gratification, domination and submission, and pure animal instinct. Over the years, countless men and women have come and gone in her life and she can remember the names of maybe two of them.

But Xavier, Xavier worships her like she’s a goddess. This feels like her first time, and she has the butterflies in her stomach to prove it.

They undress slowly, and Wynonna feels another new emotion: appreciation, as Xavier exhales his admiration of her. He drags his lips up her torso and across to her breasts, he waits to see what she likes and how she wants him, his left hand wandering purposefully from her hip, up her body and back down her arm.

Slow kisses build to a passionate embrace as Xavier pulls Wynonna to lie across his body, and she can’t stop touching him.

“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” she tells him honestly, another first for Wynonna. “I’ve never been with a man who didn’t just want to fuck right away.” Wynonna’s face hardens when she says this and Xavier places two fingers on her lips.

“Don’t be ashamed,” he tells her, “We’ve all done what’s needed to survive. We’d go mad without the touch of another sometimes. But,” and here he smirks just barely, “I’m not like other men.”

“That you’re not,” Wynonna agrees, reaching low and drawing a soft moan from Xavier’s parted lips. She leans in and hovers over him, “You’re like nothing I’ve ever known.”

* * *

 

**Tombstone, Arizona: 1990**

 

Nicole shivers in the pay phone booth; it’s colder at night in Arizona than she’d anticipated and she’s only wearing a light tee shirt and sneakers.

“Tell me again why we’re meeting in Tombstone, Doc?” she asks into the black plastic receiver, idly tracing over some graffiti etched into the booth’s glass windows.

“I want to tell you the story of what happened here, before the O.K. Corral,” Doc replies, “Besides, I like Tombstone, despite its name. I am glad you arrived safely, I know that the Greyhound bus can be... less than optimal transportation.”

Nicole casts a glance around the dingy bus stop, the dusty idling buses and harried-looking passengers adding an even more bleak look to the place. “I just want to go home,” she mutters to herself, then louder for Doc’s benefit, “Tell me where to meet you.”

 

************

 

“Have I ever told you why my time in Tombstone was important, besides of course the gunfight in the O.K. Corral, which has since gone down in the history books?” Doc prompts. They’re seated in the coffee shop of the O.K. Corral Historic Complex, watching as parents drag children through the exhibits and buy tickets for the shootout reenactment.

“Oddly enough, you never have,” Nicole replies. "I mean, I know that you were there but I never wanted to put it in a letter in case anyone intercepted it….”

“And that was smart of you, Nicole,” Doc says. “I know that we have scarcely seen each other over the years, and that I regret, but two Immortals in close proximity to each other is like a siren song for Clutie.” Doc stares at Nicole for a beat, taking in her clenched jaw and the furrow between her eyebrows. She’s changed from the woman he first met over one hundred years ago, and it saddens him.

“No matter,” Doc makes a dismissive gesture,  “let me tell you what happened and you will soon understand why this is important.”

Nicole sips from the straw in her paper cup and watches Doc look around. She muses on the fact that Doc’s never changed his daily attire from the type of cowboy clothes she first saw him in, and he blends in here like the paid actors roaming about, taking photographs with tourists.

“It does not look much different here, actually, than it did back then. It was a lawless time and vigilante justice reigned.”

 

**_Tombstone, Arizona: 1881_ **

_Black clouds roll across the horizon as two riders come slowly down the main street of Tombstone, Arizona, warily taking in their surroundings. It had been a long time since Wynonna or Xavier had shown their faces in a big city, but thanks to the mineral deposits enriching the many new citizens of Tombstone, the population here is burgeoning._

_“Look, X, a saloon,” Wynonna announces. “I feel at home already.” She steers her rugged little desert pony up to the hitching post and swings down. “Are you gonna come in?”_

_Xavier surveys the wooden buildings bracketing the main drag until he spies the General Store. “I’m going to look at the board by the General Store. Maybe I can find some work to tide us over until we find her.” He turns his horse and trots away.  Wynonna takes a moment to loosen her pistol in the holster and passes her hand over the hilt of what a bystander might consider to be an ostentatiously large bowie knife. Satisfied, she pushes through the saloon doors._

Doc pauses in his story to sip from his coffee. “Back in 1880 or so I had aligned myself with the notorious Wyatt Earp and we rode to Tombstone together. He and his brothers had taken on the role of the law here.

“Together, Wyatt and I invested in a saloon, but it is no secret that the saloon also contained a brothel. Such were the times, and we tried to at least ensure that the women in our employ were kept safe and appropriately compensated for their...labors.”

Nicole is so engrossed in Doc’s story that she nearly jumps out of her seat when a voice comes from behind her.

“You’re supposed to be Doc Holliday, right? Can I get a picture with you?”

Both Nicole and Doc freeze momentarily until the child’s parent intervenes.

“Sweetheart, I think ‘Doc Holliday’ is on break right now. We can find another Doc to get a picture with.” The parent winks in Doc’s direction and he smiles gratefully.

“I do so appreciate that,” he says with a knowing smile. “Please enjoy your visit to the O.K. Corral, and do not miss seeing ‘The Prostitutes Crib’ where you can learn about the soiled doves who serviced the hard-working men and criminals alike of Tombstone.”

The parent places both hands on her child’s ears and steers them away with a backwards glare at Doc and Nicole.

Nicole sighs deeply. “Can we get to the punchline? I get antsy in places like this.”

“Of course,” Doc continues.

_Wynonna’s used to being stared at, especially in saloons where the men drinking don’t commonly see a striking young woman in pants, confidently flaunting her pistol. She’s also had a couple hundred years to develop the type of demeanor that says, “do you really want to take this chance?” without having to say it out loud._

_Sliding onto a barstool comes as naturally to Wynonna as breathing, and she smiles a tight lipped greeting at the mustachioed gentleman who comes to take her order. “Whisky,” she requests, setting a coin on the bar._

_The bartender looks her over as he prepares her drink; the trailworn buckskin pants that skim over hips, loose cotton blouse, and her ever present horsehide coat slung across the seat next to her. His keen eyes take in the deliberate looking scars on her forearm, with a smattering of others on her throat and collarbone. And of course he doesn’t miss the patina on the pistol and bowie knife, indicative of care and use._ This one’s a fighter _, he thinks._

_He slides the drink across the bar to Wynonna, then extends a hand. “Wyatt Earp,” he introduces, “this is my saloon but I’m also the law of sorts in this town. What brings you to Tombstone?”_

Gunshots suddenly ring out, causing Doc’s hands to drop to his pistols, and Nicole to jump from her seat, her hardwood stick in hand. Loud applause rises from an arena behind them and they relax.

“Just the shootout reenactment,” Nicole laughs nervously. “But we’ve been here for a couple of hours...maybe we can…”

“Yes, yes,” Doc cajoles, “I am nearly there and I find that being in this place brings the day back to me with perfect clarity, allow me to continue.”

 _“My partner and I arrived in town today,” Wynonna says casually. “We’ve been riding for months, sir, as we’re not inclined to settle any one place at this time. He is presently looking for work, so we can replenish our supplies, and then we’ll likely move on._ **_The Law,_ ** _” she says almost mockingly, “has no need to worry about us.”_

_“Well at least you could introduce yourself,” Wyatt probes, with a friendly grin. He’s enamoured with this hard, beautiful woman, and yet part of him thinks his own survival could depend upon how carefully he treads in her presence. Nonetheless, he can’t help himself when he offers, “If it’s work you’re looking for, myself and my partner, Mr. Doc Holliday, are always looking for beautiful women to join our endeavor.”_

_Wynonna’s head snaps up, and Wyatt knows he’s overstepped. She looks Wyatt in the eye, and he’s startled by the piercing intelligence he sees there, then sips her drink in a way that brokers no argument. “I’m not that kind of girl, Mr. Earp,” she replies with a feral grin, “but do watch so I don’t take some of your girls with me when I go.”_

_The two stare at each other then Wyatt throws his head back with a loud guffaw. “Oh you’re a bold one, you are!” he laughs, and grabbing the bottle of whiskey off the back bar, he refills her glass. “Your drinks are on me today; do say you’ll come back in again. Doc will be delighted to meet you.”_

_Two days later,_ _a shout from outside the saloon has Wyatt out the doors in a hurry, just in time to see Wynonna reining in her sturdy little horse from a gallop, Xavier hard on her flank. A man lies across the back of Wynonna’s horse, lashed to the saddle, his eyes rolling and mouth working against a gag. Wynonna dismounts before the horse has even stopped and steps boldly up the steps to Wyatt._

_"Xavier saw you put a bounty on Bill Leonard for horse-thieving, so we went and got him for you.” She dusts off her pants and looks calmly at Wyatt, utterly unconcerned._

_“You...went and got Bill Leonard?” Wyatt asks incredulously. A small crowd gathers around the pair as others elbow Xavier and point at Leonard. Xavier effortlessly hauls Leonard from the back of Wynonna’s horse and dumps him unceremoniously on the boardwalk in front of Wyatt._

_"I believe, sir,” Xavier says, “that we are owed a bounty of $100. I regret to say that Mr. Leonard’s compatriots chose to die rather than be turned in to the law.”_

_“_ Now Nicole, Bill Leonard was a renowned scoundrel, a notorious horse thief and murderer. Men had sought him all the way to the Mexican border, some dying in the attempt, and here came Wynonna and Xavier within two days with the man lashed to a horse.” Doc laughs at the memory.

“Wyatt held Wynonna in the highest esteem. He kept her confidences and respected her as a trusted peer. Wyatt gave Wynonna clandestine tasks and all of the bounty work that he himself could not take on without drawing attention, you understand. Those two, for the short time that she was here, were thick as thieves.

“Then came a day when Wyatt and I were at the Saloon, when Wynonna came in alone to discuss a personal matter with Wyatt.

“I could not help but hear their confidential discussion and learned that Wynonna sought one Constance Clutie, the wife of the Sheriff of a neighboring town. The bar was full and Wyatt bade her wait at the bar momentarily, as he went to the basement to fetch more liquor.

_Wynonna waits, seated at the bar, for Wyatt to return. It’s been nearly six months since she and Xavier rode into Tombstone and their purses are fat with bounty money. It’s time to find out what she can about the reason they’re there, and move on. Preoccupied with thoughts of Clutie, and the always impending Game, Wynonna pays no mind to the young man on the seat next to her, who has gotten progressively drunker as the evening has gone on. He’s wearing a battered blue shirt indicating his former employment as a U.S. Army Scout, and his belongings lie at his feet, suggesting a transient lifestyle._

_“How ‘bout you and me go upstairs.” The loud voice slurs suddenly in Wynonna’s ear and she bristles at the implication and his hot breath on her face._

_“No, thank you,” she replies through gritted teeth, but the man suddenly grabs her arm, pulling her around to look at him._

_“You look like you need a man’s touch, woman.” He waves a hand drunkenly at Wynonna’s attire. “Do ya think you’re a man?”_

_Wynonna pushes him off; she’s not going to waste her time arguing with a drunk, but she’s stunned when his palm slaps hard across her face._

_“Ain’t no woman gonna push off Mike Gorden,” the drunk bellows, nearly falling backwards off his stool as he draws a pistol, firing a round into the ceiling._

“Nicole, it is no secret that I am known as the fastest gun in the West, but Wynonna pulled her pistol and shot this man before I could even draw. We had only a moment to look at each other, and to acknowledge that we both knew what the other was, before she was gone. She and Xavier disappeared that very day, never to return.

“Now as I have mentioned, it was the times, but Wyatt had a girlfriend by the name of Sadie, who left for California. Later, Sadie took on Wyatt’s name and would refer to herself as Mrs. Earp. She had relations with many men, however, and children were born who carried the name Earp with no real direct lineage to Wyatt himself.

"In my travels, I have heard tell of a female Immortal, one of the last of us, who goes by the surname “Earp.” I am certain that Wynonna has taken on Wyatt’s name, and brands herself a granddaughter of Sadie, perhaps for the purpose of the paperwork which one must have to exist in this time, but also probably in tribute to the man.

Doc stands abruptly and Nicole knows their meeting is done. She’s not sure she’ll see him again but the years of loneliness have hardened her heart to loss. She gathers her meager belongings and stands as well.

“Wynonna was here, in Tombstone, Nicole, to look for Clutie. She knew I was Immortal but never attempted to kill me. Like you, she has the potential to be the one, but I have only rumors as to where she has gone. The time of the Gathering draws nearer and those who are left are drawn to the Ghost River Triangle already. I think you must find her and determine if you can align with her. Accepting that one of you must die will make this easier, but the question remains, will you be the one?

“There was a time when I thought immortality was worth whatever price I had to pay to keep it. I don’t want to live forever anymore, Nicole,” Doc says, and turning on his heel, walks away.  

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Major character death.

**Toronto, Ontario: 1989**

 

Wynonna pushes out the the front door of the Bandito Video store, a VHS cassette of  _ Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade _ clutched in her hand. She waves it in the air at Xavier, waiting outside with his feet kicked up on the dash of her beat up blue and white 1977 Ford Bronco. 

 

“I got it!” she yells, swinging up into the driver’s seat and leaning over to punch Xavier in the arm. A hint of a smile appears in the corner of his lips, which she knows is the best she’ll get out of him. 

 

“New Releases are $1.49!” she complains. Quirking an ear at the tape-deck, she looks sideways at Xavier. “Are you really listening to ‘Put The X In Sex’ again?”

 

Xavier shrugs. “It’s like KISS  _ knows _ me. Do we really need donuts to go with a movie? Don’t most people eat popcorn?” 

 

“But Rustic Bakery,” Wynonna pouts, and Xavier can’t resist leaning over to smooth some hair behind her ear. “Rustic Bakery,” he agrees. Wynonna nods at him, tosses the VHS into his lap, and starts the engine. She’s just thrown the truck into reverse when Xavier’s hand on her arm pauses her. 

 

“Do you feel that?” Xavier looks around, unbuckling his seatbelt and pushing up the sleeves of his Members Only jacket as he slides out of the truck. 

 

And she does. A vague buzzing clouds Wynonna’s senses briefly, as if an unseen swarm of insects is coming. She turns off the truck and jumps out the doorless side, her back against the cover of the vehicle, and scans the few pedestrians enjoying the sunshine on a fall day. 

  
“Wynonna,” calls Xavier in a low voice. She follows his gaze to a vacant lot, across the street and between two apartment buildings, and she sees her. 

 

Constance Clutie isn’t particularly tall or powerfully built, but she radiates power. Her smooth features blend into blond hair, neatly pulled back with none of the hairspray antics that are popular in this time. Even from across the street, Wynonna can hear her when she speaks, and she watches with a feeling of ice down her spine as blue lightning appears to crackle across Clutie’s face and arms.

 

_ “There can be only one.” _

 

“It’s hard for me to believe ‘the one’ wears a Stepford Wives get-up like that,” Wynonna mocks. She’s surprised when Clutie looks down at her outfit, and she’s even more surprised when a gunshot cracks off right there in the middle of the street, broad daylight in Toronto. Passersby scream and start to run, and Wynonna looks at Xavier, still standing on the other side of her truck with Peacemaker extended over the hood, a plume of smoke rising from the barrel. 

 

“Jesus, Xavier,” she hisses, “Someone’s gonna call the cops!”

 

“I am the cops, remember?” Xavier doesn’t even look her way as he fires another round at Clutie. 

 

“Right. Right! Well, should we...YOU...call this in?” 

 

“This is it, Wynonna, it’s time.” Xavier says. “You must fight her. She cannot win the Prize.”

 

“ _ I _ must fight her? We’ll fight her together, X; this bitch is going down,” and Wynonna strides boldly across the street, smoothly unsheathing her short sword as she goes, ignoring two screaming teenagers who dart out of her way. 

 

Clutie grins and reveals a crooked blue dagger which she holds along her forearm. She tilts her head at Wynonna, pursing her lips in consideration. 

 

“You’re the one Eliza gave her life for?” she asks, and then looks at Xavier. “And you’re willing to die for her too?”

 

“The only one who’s dying here today is you,” Wynonna snarls, and she swings her short sword at Clutie, nearly losing her balance when the sword passes through clear air. Clutie has moved before she could see it happening, and her dagger cuts through the sleeve of Wynonna’s leather jacket, slicing across her forearm. 

 

Clutie draws the flat of the blade across her tongue. “First blood,” she says musingly, “you do taste different. Powerful, but...selfish,” she concludes. 

 

“I don’t know what the fuck you are, but that was disgusting,” Wynonna retorts. She sees Xavier moving out of the corner of her eye and keeps Clutie engaged, thrusting her short sword this time towards Clutie’s abdomen and putting a slice in her high waisted, pleated, acid-washed jeans. Clutie backs away, right into Peacemaker, which Xavier holds pressed against the back of her head. 

 

“Make your peace...or don’t.” Wynonna grins, but her smile falters immediately as Clutie shifts in a blur. Before Xavier knows what’s happening, he’s lying on his back with the air knocked from his lungs, a large silver wolf on his chest. In the time it takes Wynonna to hesitate...mere milliseconds that she’ll regret for the rest of her unending goddamned life...Clutie grins up at her, dips her head, and almost casually rips Xavier’s throat out. Wynonna stares in horror as the witch shifts back; cradling Xavier’s wide-eyed and gasping form in her lap as she seamlessly pulls her blade, then slices deep into his throat with her weapon. 

 

Wynonna thinks she feels the moment when her heart breaks, or freezes, or hardens to stone in her chest. Time slows to a crawl as Xavier’s head rolls from his corpse, the familiar blue energy striking down from above, illuminating the ghastly ancient face of the falsely beautiful witch as it flows into her open, screaming mouth. 

 

Clutie stands slowly, shaking Xavier’s body off of herself as if she’s touched something disgusting, raising her eyes to meet Wynonna with a mean smile. She reaches for Peacemaker but hisses as the weapon glows red, pulling her hand back as if burned, her face contorting in confusion as Wynonna screams at her, “NO!” 

 

As the sound of sirens swell in the distance, the witch growls at Wynonna in frustration, then gripping her injured hand she shifts again and leaps from the lot, disappearing into the stunned bystanders in a blur. 

 

And then there’s just Wynonna, blood soaked and alone in the lot on her knees, a short sword in one hand, crying into the headless body of Xavier.

 

“I love you, you brave stupid asshole,” she whispers, “I’m sorry.” She shoves herself up and grabs Peacemaker from where it’s fallen in the dirt, and without a final look back, she’s gone. 

* * *

**Truck Stop outside Purgatory, Alberta: 2000**

 

“Honey, can you watch her for like two minutes while I hit the ladies?”

 

Wynonna looks up from her cup of coffee and AAA Triptik, unhappy at the interruption, to see a nondescript woman of maybe twenty years old, clutching the hand of a small child. The woman appears careworn and exhausted, if the dark circles under her eyes are any indication, with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a bulky rolling suitcase in tow. 

 

“It’s just...I got all my stuff,” the woman continues, “and I wanna wash up. She won’t be a bother, right, sweetie?”

 

The little girl looks at Wynonna through big hazel eyes. She’s a tiny thing with long curling light brown hair and a solemn expression, wearing a pink backpack with tiny unicorns all over it. A beat up teddy bear hangs out the top of the backpack. She shakes her head ever so slightly and sits in the booth across from Wynonna. 

 

“Thanks hon,” the woman,  _ this child’s mother maybe? _ says, “I won’t be a sec.” And she strides off towards the ladies room, luggage in tow.

 

Wynonna looks at her small guest. She caps the pen she was using and marks her place in the Triptik with it, then leans back against the booth. “What’s your name, babygirl?” 

 

“Waverly,” the little girl whispers. 

 

************

 

About thirty minutes have passed and Wynonna’s getting antsy. The woman did say she wanted to wash up; maybe she took advantage of the coin-op showers. Wynonna looks at Waverly, who has quietly removed a coloring book from her backpack and is neatly crayoning away.

 

“Did your mama say she was going to take a shower here?”

 

Waverly doesn’t look up, just continues to fill in a sunflower in bright yellow. “No,” she answers. 

 

Wynonna’s not going to be the second person to leave this little girl alone or with a stranger in a truck stop for even a minute, and she reaches across the table to tap Waverly’s hand. “Let’s go check the bathroom for mama, ok?” 

 

Waverly shrugs and neatly returns her crayons to the box, then slips them and the coloring book back into her backpack and stands up from the booth. She takes Wynonna’s hand easily, and Wynonna looks down, surprised to see the tiny fingers interlaced with her own. 

 

Her heart drops in her chest when Wynonna opens the bathroom door. She’d half expected this outcome, she tells herself, surveying the empty bathroom even as she casts a cursory glance under the stall doors. She pulls Waverly to the back door of the diner and scans the parking lot. Trucks idle and people mill about, but she doesn’t see the woman anywhere. Wynonna looks down at Waverly, who seems utterly unconcerned...resigned even. She takes a deep breath and asks, “Are you hungry, babygirl?” 

 

************

 

Waverly’s smearing syrup across the plate with the last bite of her pancakes when the Sheriff arrives. He’s portly and a bit disheveled in his khaki pants and dark shirt, five o’clock shadow dusting his cheeks. Although the look he casts at Wynonna is one of suspicious assessment, his gaze softens when it turns to Waverly, who has politely laid her fork along the edge of the plate and polished off her glass of milk. When the food had come she’d slid over to Wynonna’s side of the table so Wynonna could cut her pancakes, and she’d stayed there. Now she snuggles into Wynonna’s side and her glazed-over eyes betray her exhaustion. 

 

“Mind if I sit?” the deputy asks. “Randy Nedley,” he introduces, extending his hand to Wynonna. They shake and Wynonna nods at the seat across from her. 

 

“Is that your motorcycle?” Nedley asks, tipping his head towards the parking lot. “Ontario plates….are you just passing through?”

 

“Yep,” Wynonna answers; she’s gotten awfully good over the last 391 years or so at not sharing anything about herself without good reason. 

 

“Where to?” Nedley prods gently.

 

“Here and there.”

 

Nedley purses his lips and nods. “OK,” he says, “what’s the story with this little sweetie?”

 

By the time Wynonna is done telling the sad short story, the tiny form slumped against her side is snoring softly. “What are you gonna do with her?” Wynonna asks, smoothing the hair out of Waverly’s face. She notices now that the soles of Waverly’s shoes are worn nearly through, and notes the grime on her bedazzled denim jacket. She surprises herself by wrapping an arm around Waverly, who snuggles further into her, looking impossibly young in her sleep. “What kind of a person leaves a baby like this with a perfect stranger,” Wynonna hisses, angry suddenly at the unfairness of the situation. “You won’t give her back will you?”

 

The look on Nedley’s face almost says more than his words do. “Wynonna, have you ever been to Purgatory?”

 

“It’s been a while since I was in this area,” she replies vaguely. 

 

“Purgatory’s an odd town. People show up and disappear all the time from here. It’s like a crossroads….” Nedley shakes his head.  “Of course we’ll notify the proper authorities, but Waverly isn’t really a surprise to me. You ain’t gonna see her mama again, I don’t figure. For tonight though I’m gonna call Gus McCready. She’s the closest thing we have to Child Services here in Purgatory. It’s a hundred miles to the City so they let us do things a little more unorthodox here, and she ain’t sleeping in the police station.”

 

Nedley lumbers to his feet and moves around the table, scooping the sleeping form of Waverly up into his arms. “You wanna follow me there or you gonna take off? I got your statement.”

 

Wynonna thinks about her life. It’s been over ten years of no strings, going wherever she wants and doing whatever pleases her, ever since Xavier died. In all that time she hasn’t encountered another Immortal, but she’s had time to think about her destiny. Something drew her to this town, Purgatory, to the Ghost River Triangle that Eliza told her about all those years ago, and at the time Wynonna thought it was just the coming Gathering, but now...she looks at Waverly, fast asleep against Nedley’s chest and makes a decision.

 

“Lead the way.”

* * *

 

**Purgatory, Alberta: 2004**

 

“I want the new book:  _ Norse Gods and Giants _ .”

 

Wynonna selects the hardback book from where it’s neatly filed, alphabetically by author of course, on Waverly’s bookshelf. She thumbs through the pages, then looks up at Waverly. “Isn’t this book at little advanced for you?” Wynonna smirks at Waverly; she knows Waverly could probably read this book in whatever language these myths were originally written in by now. 

 

Waverly huffs and snuggles deeper into her mountain of blankets. “I like falling asleep listening to you mispronouncing their names. I want to hear ‘The Kidnapping of Idun’.”

 

Wynonna slides into bed next to Waverly and wiggles around until she’s cocooned into the blanket nest, then opens the book. “Odin, Loki and Hoenir…” she starts, then snorts. 

  
“What are you, twelve?” Waverly chastises. “It’s not ‘ **Ho** -near’.”

 

“Sorry babygirl,” Wynonna laughs, not at all remorseful. “How about I get you a subscription to ‘Tiger Beat’ and we can look at that together instead?”

 

Waverly crinkles her nose in disgust. “Why would I want to read a trashy magazine about boy bands when there’re so many more interesting things to learn about in the world? Read the story, Wy.”

 

Her mind is half on the story and half on Waverly while she reads aloud. Waverly, her perfect, brilliant, found-family sister. Waverly who has always forgiven everyone for leaving her, betraying her or hurting her, and just moved on with her pretty smile and precocious brain.  She’s so distracted, in fact, that she doesn’t pay attention to the story, and she’s taken by surprise when Waverly asks her, “Do you believe in magic?”

 

“Huh?” Wynonna drops the book on her stomach and rolls her head to look at Waverly, snuggled deep in her purple and pink sheet set, her golden brown hair spread across the pillows. Waverly’s hand snakes out from under the blanket and traces the skin around Wynonna’s eyes.

 

“The story you just read. The gods of Asgard stayed young by consuming a magical fruit tended by the goddess Idun. You always look the same, Wynonna. I’ve been your sister for years and you’ve never gotten any older. Do you want to know what I think?” 

 

Wynonna’s gut twists with fear; she knew this day would come, but true to her nature, she hoped she could just wing her way out of it. She blinks at Waverly, uncertain of what to say, but tries for a joke. “You think too much for an eight year old. Obviously I have an excellent skin care regime.”

 

“I think,” Waverly continues firmly, refusing to be distracted, and with a conviction and vocabulary that bely her meager number of years on this earth, “that mythologies such as ‘The Kidnapping of Idun’ come from a real story.” Waverly’s eyes widen in sudden realization. “Oh my gosh...are you a goddess, Wynonna?”

 

And Wynonna would laugh right then and there, if she could, and brush it off, and make gentle fun of Waverly, but somehow she can’t. She finds herself speaking out loud before she can stop herself. 

 

“I love you so much, babygirl. You’re so smart and perfect. I believe that you came to me for a reason. And it’s only fair that you know the truth. I...I can’t get any older.” 

 

It’s the first time Wynonna’s ever said it out loud to anyone. She cringes internally, waiting for Waverly to laugh at her or even annoyedly tell her to  _ stop fooling _ . 

 

“So you’re immortal,” Waverly says simply. “I knew there was something different about you.” She yawns widely and pecks Wynonna on the cheek, then rolls over with a “G’night Wy.”

 

Wynonna lies there with her mouth slightly ajar.  _ What the fuck just happened, _ she thinks.  Before she can decide if she should check in with Waverly, light snoring starts to rise from the other side of the bed. Wynonna shakes her head and, a bit stunned, wanders out of Waverly’s room and down the stairs to the kitchen, where she finds Gus seated at the table with a cup of coffee. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, she pours her own cup of coffee and adds a heavy dose of heat. Wynonna plops down across from Gus and puts her head in her hands.

 

“She figured it out, eh?” Gus asks, and there’s pride in her voice that she doesn’t try to hide. “I knew she would soon enough; this is even earlier than I thought though. She’s always been a smart girl.” 

 

“This is why I never stayed in one place. I never let myself get close to anyone. I’m just going to hurt her! I always hurt everyone I love.” Wynonna swipes angrily at the tears that fall unbidden from her eyes, but she lets Gus reach across the table and take her hand. 

 

“When Randy Nedley brought you to my door, I knew you two were special right away, Wynonna. Of course we both caught on pretty quick that Waverly is exceptional-- and someday we’re gonna figure that out too. The fact that you trusted me enough to tell me only makes you more special.” 

 

Wynonna thinks back to that day in the truck stop, how the follow up on the surveillance cameras around the restaurant and the gas pumps never found the harried young woman with the suitcase entering or exiting the building. It was as if she literally just...came into being, to bring a tiny brilliant soul into Wynonna’s, and later Gus’ lives. 

 

“Wynonna,” Gus speaks gently,  “you know my Curtis was like you, right?” 

 

Her eyes snap open to look at Gus across the table, and Gus nods, the expression on her face a combination of amused and sorrowful. “Oh yeah, when I met him he wandered up here to see if I wanted to hire a hand. He was an ugly fella but so engaging. I fell for the man; he could always spin the best yarns. And he knew so much about Native history. He’d travelled around collecting First Nations artifacts, and he talked about the importance of ‘returning these cultural icons to their rightful place’,” Gus airquotes, putting on a deep voice, then laughs.

 

“But I had to ask the man why he always carried a damned antique lookin’ tomahawk everywhere he went! I even bought him a nice new hatchet, but he just smiled and slung that old thing at his belt whenever he left the house. We were together for twelve years but it only took him two to tell me. Only one Immortal ever came for him here...an American. They’ll never find  _ that one _ out here,” Gus adds distantly, then sits in silence for a moment.

 

Wynonna squeezes her hand. “What happened to Curtis, Gus?”

 

“A woman came,” Gus says sadly. “She called and said she wanted to talk to him about an artifact. Curtis was always so sweet and trusting. He was so excited about that artifact and I think he just let his guard down, I still don’t understand why he went even when his senses must have told him that danger was near. She was a pretty blond thing; they went out to the hills. Sheriff Nedley told me it was wolves that tore off his head. I never saw the body...but Curtis had told me about the Game. He underestimated her.”

 

Wynonna shivers at the mention of wolves, her mind flashing briefly to Xavier, the terrible destruction of that perfect day. They sit in silent reflection and after a time, Gus stands up decisively and dumps out the coffee cups, then picks up the whiskey and pours them both a healthy portion in the mugs.  “The point is, Wynonna, those of us who get to love you are better for it, even if it ends for all of us, eventually. Who wants to live forever?” 

 

She holds up her mug. “To Curtis,” she toasts. 

 

_ To Xavier _ , Wynonna adds to herself.

* * *

 

**Purgatory, Alberta: 2013**

 

“You’re leaving again.” 

 

Eighteen year old Waverly stands in front of Wynonna, arms crossed protectively across her chest, an accusing look on her face. 

 

Wynonna averts her eyes, trying hard to look like the job of securing her blanket roll onto the handlebars of her Harley requires all of her attention. 

  
“Wynonna!” Waverly demands, and Wynonna looks up with a guilty expression. 

 

“Babygirl, look, I’m sorry, but I have to go. I just gotta get away for a little bit. I’m starting to feel a little locked down here.” 

 

Waverly’s angry expression morphs to hurt, and Wynonna feels immediately guilty, but she can’t let her sister know the truth. That incessant buzzing she’s felt down her spine, her hair on end...one of them has found her and Wynonna will never, ever bring a killer to her sanctuary. If she must die at the hands of another Immortal, she’ll never let them know that they can hurt her family to draw her out. Let them follow her over land and oceans if they will, but don’t even think about touching Waverly. 

 

“I’m riding to Toronto and catching a flight to Greece. I promise I’ll call you every week.” Wynonna tries to hug Waverly, but she stiffly resists, looking away. Wynonna leans back and looks at her, then slaps her ass, causing Waverly to jump and yelp, then reluctantly face Wynonna. 

 

“Why don’t you ever take me with you. I’m the one who really wants to see the world,” she pouts.  “You’re gonna miss my graduation…”

 

Wynonna’s heart breaks a little more at the words. Gus took on the role of the mother really neither of them got to have, but Wynonna can’t even succeed at being a good sister to Waverly. She shakes her head, disgusted with herself, then slings a leg over her bike. 

 

“Take care of Gus, babygirl, I’ll talk to you soon.”

 

Waverly watches the bike roar out of the driveway, standing there until the plume of dust dissipates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone. I appreciate you reading this weirdness and hope you will continue to enjoy it. 
> 
> I feel the need to address the death of Xavier at the beginning of the chapter. In crossing these two universes I end up with the conundrum that's mentioned throughout the story: there can be only one winner of the Game. I love Xavier, and we'll see more of him later, but unfortunately this was going to happen sooner or later. I only hope that I have done his character justice, and if I've offended or upset anyone too badly, please be constructive in your criticism.
> 
> Thanks again to @jnsbeth and @comelayinmybed (two other writers you shouldn't sleep on...seriously go read their stuff) for the inspiration to write this fic. 
> 
> And thank you to my reluctant beta, @comelayinmybed. She puts up with a lot. 
> 
> As always, you can talk to me on Twitter @LuckyWantsTo. See you next week.


	5. Chapter 5

**Scottish Police College, Tulliallan, Scotland: 2014**

 

“Anderson, watch how Haught does it!” the Sergeant yells, as Nicole and the other probationary officers practice a physical training scenario that involves following a fleeing suspect onto the roof of a building. Nicole climbs the fire ladder easily, staying low when she reaches the roof and scanning the scene before she swings herself up. The suspect breaks from behind concealment and Nicole is on him in no time, tackling him to the ground and rendering him immobile with quick hands and well-placed knees. As another training constable on the rooftop heads over to debrief the drill with Nicole, Anderson mutters under his breath to the woman next to him in line. “It’s not my fault Haught can climb like a feckin gecko.” 

 

Pressman smiles fondly. “Well she looks good doing everything, Anderson, do you need a band aid for your boo-boo lip?” She elbows her classmate teasingly. They’re still laughing quietly when Nicole returns to the line.

 

“What are you two smirking about?” she asks. 

 

“Pressman here was ogling you when you did the drill,” Anderson informs her, dodging an elbow from Pressman, and Nicole blushes. 

 

“I’ve just...had a lot of experience with climbing. You’re still a better shot than I am, Anderson,” she adds modestly. 

 

“Isn’t anyone here that can top Haught with the baton,” chimes in another recruit, “though I’m not sure how long they’ll let you carry your da’s.”

 

Nicole runs her hand over her hardwood baton, snugged neatly into a ring on her duty belt, reflecting on her journey here, to this place. 

 

After years of hiding and running, Nicole has come home to Scotland, training now to be a new kind of sheepdog, she reflects wryly. She’s not sure when she had the epiphany, that even while she waits and prepares for the inevitable Gathering, she can still put herself to good use protecting others. 

 

Nicole had passed the demanding physical requirements for entry into the Police College and is nearly halfway done with the first eleven week portion of her two year probationary training.  Haught being a common surname in Scotland, she’d managed to find an obituary for a retired police constable named Roger Haught from a tiny town called Scoraig, and made short work of a convincing family history. 

 

Now, surrounded by twenty of her peers, she feels pride and a strong sense of belonging for the first time in her over 400 years of life. Whatever time left she has here, she plans to spend training and preparing herself. It doesn’t hurt that in an increasingly modern world, police work will give her access to information which formerly wasn’t available to her, and perhaps she can find Clutie before Clutie finds her. 

 

The class is dismissed from the training drill and Nicole is walking back to their dormitory, which is housed in an historic castle on the grounds, when she hears a call from behind her.

 

“Nicole, wait!” 

 

Nicole stops to see Shae Pressman jogging up, a wide smile on her face as she pulls on her PT hoodie. 

 

“Hey! Are you going off grounds for the weekend?”

 

“I...hadn’t decided,” Nicole says. In the time spent at the training program, she and Shae had become close friends, studying and working out together, but they’d never spent any time together off campus. “What about you?”

 

“Actually yes,” Shae replies. “I’ve got CHVRCHES tickets in Glasgow. Would you...want to go?”

 

NIcole does a surreptitious scan of her friend, taking in her strong features and long legs. She can’t deny the attraction she’s felt towards Shae since probably the second week of training, and at times it seems mutual.  Nicole had decided long ago that a relationship, even a casual one, would only serve to distract her. But now…

 

Shae looks at her with a soft smile, surprising them both by reaching up to run her hand down Nicole’s arm. “Come on,” she says, “it’ll be fun. I got a hotel room so you don’t even have to worry about a place to stay.” 

 

************

 

“That was fucking epic,” Shae screams, dancing around Nicole and belting out the first few lines of “The Mother We Share”. She throws back another shot and wraps herself around Nicole’s upper arm. Nicole nods enthusiastically, downing the rest of her beer. They’ve been at the pub for a couple hours now and the combination of adrenaline from the show, the alcohol, and Shae’s attention is making Nicole feel like she’s flying. If she’s honest with herself, she hasn’t really cut loose in centuries. “I don’t usually drink like this,” she slurs, “Tis gaun strai t’mai head.”

 

“Holy shit, listen to you!” laughs Shae, “That country brogue really rolls out when you’ve had a few, yeah?”

 

Nicole’s vision is swimming and she leans in close to Shae, blinking hard until the other woman’s face swims into clear focus. She runs the tip of her tongue over her lips and watches as Shae’s eyes follow the movement. “Dae ye want to go somewhere else?”

 

************

 

They’re barely in the hotel room before Shae’s got Nicole pushed up into the nearest wall, both hands on the sides of Nicole’s face, leaning in and kissing her breathless.

 

“Is this ok?” Shae pauses, looking hesitantly at Nicole’s wide eyes. “I just thought…” but Nicole doesn’t let her finish the thought. In one swift movement Nicole unties the knotted hem of her new band shirt and pulls it over her head. She pushes Shae’s jacket off of her shoulders and watches as Shae shakes it off impatiently onto the floor. 

 

Shae admires Nicole, soft pale skin with the muscle tone evident below, a long thick scar prominent on her forearm with other smaller ones smattered all over her hands, face, and chest. 

She reaches over and strokes a finger down the larger scar, and Nicole smiles. “Rock climbing injury,” she explains, catching Shae’s wrist as the finger concludes its path to her hand. She pulls Shae into her body, sliding a hand under her white ribbed tank top and around to the small of her back. “Can we go back to this?” she asks, tilting her head until her lip are nearly touching Shae’s. 

 

Shae nods mutely and closes the distance, their mouths meshing in a slow, deep kiss. Nicole pushes the shirt up Shae’s body until they break apart for her to toss it over her head, then they come back together. Shae slides her hand up Nicole’s back, and with a practiced movement, unclasps her bra, causing it to fall forward on her chest. Nicole smirks into her mouth, “You’ve done that before, I see.” Shae pulls the bra down Nicole’s arms and palms her breasts. 

 

It’s been so long since Nicole has taken pleasure from another person, and her senses are thrumming. She can feel the anticipation wet between her thighs already, and she’s trying to slow down and control herself but with the alcohol, the stimulation, the excitement, it’s almost too much for her. She unbuttons Shae’s jeans and pushes them and her underwear past hips and ass, and Shae moans into her neck, her hands everywhere on Nicole’s back and sides, then sliding around to the front to undo her pants. They push and pull desperately at each other until Shae pushes her firmly into the wall behind them. 

 

“Bed?” Nicole gasps, but Shae shakes her head, dropping to her knees in front of Nicole and tugging Nicole’s pants down to mid thigh.

“Please,” she says, “I can’t wait. Can I...?” 

 

And Nicole can only lean back into the wall, her hands searching for something to grab onto, before one of them latches unrepentantly into Shae’s hair. With a final lust-filled look up at her, Shae slips her tongue between Nicole’s thighs, and Nicole melts. Shae’s talented with her mouth, and she hums against Nicole, her tongue darting teasingly up and down towards her entrance, then circling her clit, then sucking it into her mouth as she engages her fingers to press lightly against Nicole. 

 

“Oh fuck, fuck…” Nicole moans, “Jesus God, Shae…” She pulls Shae’s face closer to her but practically falls to the ground when Shae pushes two fingers inside her and begins thrusting in time with the attention she is paying to Nicole’s clit. Without any real awareness, Nicole begins to tease her own nipple, squeezing her breast lightly. The combined sensations send a shiver up her spine and Shae pauses.

 

“Are you ok, Nic?”

 

Nicole can only roll her lips in and nod, because she’s lost the power of speech. Shae’s lips glisten as she smiles and exhales a warm breath against Nicole’s clit, slowly sliding her fingers deeply back in. Nicole’s legs are trembling now and she can hear the blood rushing in her ears. Her breath is coming in short pants, her mouth open.

 

Shae stands up then and presses her lips to Nicole’s neck, even as her pace speeds up, pressing her fingers into Nicole and grinding her palm against Nicole’s clit. She uses her other hand to pull Nicole’s leg up over her hip, the pants slipping awkwardly inside out, using her own body to pin Nicole against the wall, and the greater access afforded by this position is what pushes Nicole over the edge. She’s got both arms flung around Shae’s neck and when she comes she pulls Shae in to her, pressing her mouth to Shae’s throat and jaw, a stream of affirmations pouring from her throat, until Nicole finally sags in Shae’s arms. “God Shae, I can’t even stand up.’

  
“That’s good, babe,” Shae answers with a smile, “now take me to bed.” 

 

************

 

Hours later Nicole has Shae rendered speechless as she hovers above her on one strong arm, the other hand buried inside Shae and a hip backing it up. Nicole’s red hair is tickling Shae’s bare chest, and she shakes her head to get it out of her face, before dropping down closer to kiss the spot behind Shae’s ear. “You’re gorgeous like this,” she whispers in Shae’s ear, tasting salt on her lips. “You look beautiful when I’m fucking you.” 

 

Her words stoke a fire in Shae and she claws at Nicole’s back, rolling her own hips up into Nicole’s thrusts. Nicole feels the telltale clenching around her fingers as Shae cries out something incoherent, then squeezes down hard. She flings a leg over Nicole to keep her locked in place. “Don’t.Even.Think.About.Moving.From.There,” Shae gets out. Her eyes are closed tightly but she’s smiling widely. “Dear God, Nicole.”

 

After a few minutes Shae’s legs flop open and she pushes at Nicole’s arm. Nicole drops down next to her with a satisfied sigh, and they roll their heads to look at each other. “Well, that was fun,” Shae laughs. “I had a feeling you’d be great at this, my god you’re good at everything, aren’t you?” 

 

***********

 

NIcole awakens the next morning to the mattress dipping next to her and Shae’s soft voice.

 

“Hey, sleepyhead, we only get the rest of the day before we have to get back. Hair of the dog?” She’s holding something out and Nicole squints through a hungover haze to see a champagne glass in Shae’s hand. “Mimosas and scones,” Shae smiles, “and then lets go out.”

 

The rest of the night comes back to Nicole in a flash and she suddenly feels wide awake. She rolls onto her side and up out of the bed, taking the few steps into the small attached bathroom. Leaning naked in the doorway she turns to see Shae looking at her with trepidation in her eyes. “How about, I brush my teeth and we stay in?” she asks, smiling so broadly that a dimple pops in her cheek, and Shae’s expression relaxes. 

 

After a leisurely morning that becomes a giggling frantic dash to get out before housekeeping knocks at checkout time, they’re both out the door, spending a magical time roaming the town hand in hand. Nicole feels a wave of fond sadness when an old abandoned structure at the edge of the town reminds her of her birthplace in the Highlands, but she feels like a teenager again when a determined looking Shae drags her behind it and lets Nicole press her down into the grass with mouth and hands. 

 

************

 

Nicole is just rounding the track at the Police College, finishing off her run when Anderson catches up, blowing hard. 

 

“Fuckin’ hell, Haught,” he puffs, “I don’t believe you’re human.”

 

Nicole feels a quick twinge of fear. She’s gotten careless in the past few weeks, busy with training, hazy with Shae and sex...and feeling like a normal young adult for the first time in a few hundred years. She slows to a brisk walk, cooling down, wishing she was closer to her duty belt and baton which lies with the rest of her gear near the bleachers on the other end of the track.  _ I can at least incapacitate him _ , Nicole thinks, flexing her hands.  _ A quick strike to the throat will give me time to get to my weapon.  _ But she doesn’t feel that buzzing, the supernatural indicator of the presence of another Immortal, and Anderson continues speaking, oblivious to her swirling thoughts. 

 

“You’re the fastest runner the College has ever seen, you climb like a spider, and I’m still bruised from custody training.” He laughs admiringly. “You’re going to be such a good constable, Nicole, I’m jealous. Plus you have the hottest girlfriend.”

 

They circle the corner of the track to see Shae bent over, her hands around her ankles as she stretches her long legs. Nicole doesn’t even mind Anderson ogling when Shae looks over at her and smiles. “Nice run, babe. You beat your time.”

 

“See,” Anderson concludes, “not human. So, are you guys going to the party tonight?”

 

The second to last week of the course has arrived and the probationers, more like a family now through their shared misery of training, have rented a house for the weekend. Their instructors have warned them that even in their off time they represent Police Scotland and are expected to conduct themselves at all times in a professional and positive manner. Nonetheless, the party promises to be a rager of the first degree. 

 

“We’ll be there,” Shae promises, bouncing up onto her toes. “See ya in a bit,” and she takes off towards the trainers at the beginning of the track. 

 

**************

 

Three hours into the party finds Nicole drunk and barely holding her own against Shae in a game of strip beer pong. Their friends cheer as Nicole sinks the ball, and Shae laughs sportingly as she seductively runs her hands down her body and peels off a sock, tossing it at Nicole’s face. “I’m starting to regret what I wore tonight,” Nicole yells over the party din, looking down at her boyshorts and sports bra. “I give up, because I’m not getting naked in front of you all.” 

 

Shae grabs her around the waist and pulls her in for a hot kiss, “Let’s up the ante, babe,” she says, “I make this next ball and we do something totally crazy!”

 

“The only thing crazier than playing naked beer pong with a bunch of police recruits is us getting married if you win,” Nicole jokes, laughing. 

 

“That’s totally it,” Shae screams, jumping up and down enthusiastically, with Nicole struggling to follow through her drunken haze. “Anderson! Where the fuck are you?”

 

Anderson hustles over and Shae grabs him by the front of the shirt. “You’re one of those Unitarian Universalist Church of Life ministers, right?”

 

“Best believe it!” Anderson replies proudly. “I married my brother just this year!” 

 

A pair of hollering recruits shove a shot glass in Anderson’s hand chanting, “Drink, drink, drink!” as he throws back the shot. 

 

“Anderson, listen,” Shae says, trying to sound serious through her giggles. “I made Nic here a bet. If I beat her at beer pong you gotta marry us tonight.”

 

“Oh fuck yes!” Anderson yells. “Fucking epic! I can do all the legal stuff online too!” 

 

Nicole sways in place, trying to follow the conversation, distracted as her girlfriend’s hand trails lightly up and down her half-naked torso. She leans into Shae, her lips tickling the curve of Shae’s ear. “Babe, right now I’d marry anyone who takes me somewhere quiet.” 

 

“Just one sec then, Nic,” Shae says, and easily sinks her last ping pong ball. She raises both fists triumphantly in the air and cheers, then throws her arms around Nicole who picks her up and spins her around.

 

“You guys,” he points his fingers at Nicole and Shae, “are getting married!” 

 

************

 

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Nicole groans from the bed, where she’s lying naked on her face with Shae splayed over her. “My freaking head…”

 

Hot sunlight streams through the curtains, and Nicole’s bladder is screaming at her. She pulls herself out from under Shae with some difficulty, cringing a bit when Shae’s arm drops bonelessly off the edge of the bed frame and hits the floor. She looks at Shae, her long dark hair spread messily over her face with fresh half-moon bruises dotting the backs of her thighs, and blushes. She’s only got flashes of what happened the night before, but she has a feeling she did something really stupid. 

 

Pulling her clothes from the floor, Nicole heads sleepily to the bathroom to relieve herself. She snaps wide awake when she hears a loud noise outside the bedroom window. Looking wildly around the room for her baton, she realizes she has no idea where she left it. Settling for her belt wrapped around her fist, Nicole slowly opens the window covering to reveal an unfortunate colleague staggering out from the bushes under her window where he’d likely passed out the night before. 

 

“Stupid, stupid!” Nicole chastises herself. This thing with Shae is too distracting. It’s been years since she let her guard down so completely, and while she feels lucky to have not paid the heaviest price for it, she knows it can never happen again. As her heart rate slows, she looks around the room and spots her baton on top of her gear bag in the corner. She picks it up and calms immediately, sitting back down on the bed, when she feels Shae’s hand trail up her back.

 

“We did it babe,” Shae says, almost nonchalantly. “You’re my wife.”

* * *

 

**Purgatory, Alberta 2016**

 

“Tell me about this one,” Waverly prompts, as she caresses her fingertip down a thin puckered line that runs from behind Wynonna’s ear to her collarbone. Wynonna touches the scar, warmth from her sister’s touch still lingering, and smiles reminiscently. This many years later, neither of them has outgrown the habit of curling up together late at night, in what Waverly still jokingly refers to as ‘storytime’.

 

“Xavier and I tracked the guy down in Toronto. I went in undercover but when I got there it was one of those high dollar nightclubs full of blond chicks and douchey guys. No offense to your boyfriend, babygirl,” Wynonna teases, and Waverly slaps lightly at her, then pulls the blankets up higher to her chin. “I don’t refer to every mistake you’ve ever made as ‘your boyfriend’. Go on.”

 

“You’ve heard this a million times, Wave, aren’t you tired of it? I could just read you a bedtime story.”

 

“Do you speak Norwegian? I have a new scroll I need to translate.”

 

Wynonna pauses for a moment, watching a stream of moonlight illuminate her sister’s bedroom, the ponderous ancient tomes piled neatly on her desk a stark contrast to a cluster of glittery scarves tied around the lamp along with the approximately three thousand bottles of nail polish adorning a corner of the bookshelf. 

 

She silently thanks whatever deity gave her a sister who has forgiven her for so many years of...not lying necessarily, but certainly omitting. Wynonna smiles wryly when she thinks about how Waverly eventually confronted her for the truth, only to reveal to her that she’d spent almost every minute of her waking hours, and her entire education, on trying to decipher and understand Wynonna’s curse of Immortality. 

 

“I went into the club and saw the guy right away at the bar. What a sleezeball; he fit right in.” 

 

_ The lights strobe around the club and the speakers pump out “Money for Nothing” at a deafening volume, but Wynonna can only hear the rushing of blood in her ears, and feel the familiar buzzing down her spine. She pushes through the writhing dancers, her hand sweeping to her waist, eyes locked on Michael Chris as he reaches around the woman he’s flirting with and boldly squeezes her ass. _

 

_ “Douchebag,” Wynonna mutters to herself, the tinkling laughter of Chris’ companion grating against her eardrums. _

 

_ It’s a bad place to challenge another Immortal; too many witnesses, not enough space for a duel, and Wynonna’s never felt great about taking another head without giving her opponent an opportunity to fight for it. “Not sporting,” is what Xavier always says. But Michael Chris has eluded them for years and they’d heard rumors of the type of torture he liked to inflict upon his opponents before killing them. This is the Game, but Chris plays dirty. “CHRIS,” she yells, as with a final push through the crowd she stands in front of him. “Get up, you piece of dirt.” _

 

_ Chris swivels nonchalantly on his stool, but the move serves to pull the girl in front of him, and she giggles nervously as he tugs her between his knees. _

 

_ “If this is your girlfriend, baby, I’m not into that,” she says, struggling a bit in Chris’s tightening arms. “Let go of me! This isn’t funny.” _

 

_ “Trust me honey,” Wynonna quips, “I am  _ _ not _ _ the other woman.” _

 

_ “You’re gonna do this right here, Wynonna?” Chris demands. He stands abruptly then as, in one practiced movement, Wynonna draws her blade. The woman falls to the ground, wide-eyed and speechless, and scrambles away on hands and knees. Chris smoothes both hands over his slicked-back hair and rolls out his neck. Without warning, Chris strikes out in a deadly jab, catching Wynonna on her shoulder and pushing her momentarily off balance, but she’s ready for his following left hook, ducking as he swings through empty air.  _

 

_ The club patrons cheer as “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go” starts blaring from the speakers, shimmying and jumping up and down, as Chris goes in low for a tackle. Wynonna chops her blade down towards his back, cutting deeply into his shoulder. Crimson blood stains Chris’ white dress shirt and flows down his arm to drip on the floor. “Bitch,” he grits, stepping back to regroup. He straightens up and shakes out his arms, his blood spattering the oblivious patrons around them, and shoves his hands into his pockets. _

 

_ “I didn’t know hand-to-hand combat was your thing,” Wynonna mocks, her careful moves around him belying her intentions...she just needs an opening and she can incapacitate Chris and get him outside, where they can take his head without anyone seeing. “Where’s your weapon, Immortal?” _

 

_ Chris smiles softly and it’s like slow motion when he pulls his hands out of his pockets and squares up to Wynonna. “I’ve been saving these for you. How much did you learn from Eliza?” Chris asks, taking advantage of Wynonna’s shock, his metal clad knuckles striking her temple and stunning her briefly as a trickle of blood runs into her eye. “Did she teach you that the uppercut was her deadliest move? That she took the heads of seven immortals with these….” a hard strike to her jaw, “...including my Teacher, my love…” and he’s angry now, and starting to swing a little wildly, hitting her everywhere, but Wynonna can only focus on the sight of Eliza’s brass knuckles glinting under the multi-colored strobe lights, her dizzy brain still able to see that the weapons look different somehow from when Eliza wielded them,  _ less alive maybe? _ \-- even as Chris pummels her into near unconsciousness.  _

 

_ “In the end, she just knelt down and let me kill her,” Chris mocks.  _

 

_ Wynonna’s looking for the exit now, she’s knows this went wrong, but the blood in her eyes is nearly blinding her, so she stumbles backwards with her blade in front of her, part of her idly wondering at the fact that no one in this club is watching a murder about to take place, when she impacts something warm and solid. _

 

_ A thickly-muscled arm rises along Wynonna’s side as another wraps around her waist, and she hears Xavier’s voice next to her ear, “It’s me...steady.” _

 

_ “There can be only one, Chris,” Xavier says and blue flames erupt from Peacemaker’s barrel as, with a loud bang, Chris is thrown backwards, his throat exploding in a gory spray and his hands flung heavenward.  As Chris’ head rolls from his body, the clubgoers cheer at the sudden lightshow, “Fireworks!” screams a woman with large bouncing blond curls, as she and her friends link hands and jump around in a circle. The energy flows from Chris’ body, streaming across the floor and into Xavier. He stands transfixed, taking in the energy until it trickles to a few sparks, then kneels to pick up Eliza’s brass knuckles. “He never earned the right to even touch these,” Xavier says reverently as he pockets them.  _

 

“So Chris basically kicked my ass and that’s how I got that scar,” Wynonna concludes abruptly, trying to be surreptitious as she wipes a tear from her cheek. 

 

Waverly turns on her side and looks at her sister, now staring straight up at the ceiling with a telltale glistening in her eyes. “You mean, Chris nearly took your head and Xavier saved your life. He was a really good man, wasn’t he, Wynonna?” 

 

“The  _ best _ .”

 

Waverly reaches across the pillow and strokes some hair from Wynonna’s temple. “Jeremy got a hold of some redacted data through Black Badge, and I have been doing more research. Another unidentifiable headless body was found in California and one in Minnesota. I was able to get the forensic investigator in Los Angeles to send me the results of the radiocarbon dating analysis for the metallic residue found in the neck wound, Wy, and it’s thousands of years old. It has to be Clutie, on the move again.”

 

Wynonna rolls and faces Waverly. “I never wanted to get you involved in this, babygirl. There’s still time for you to walk away and use your genius mind for something else..get the hell out of the Ghost River Triangle. The Game is the worst,” she says angrily through welling tears, “….what a stupid name for something that you can’t really ever win. I’ve never gotten to keep anything I love and I couldn’t bear to lose you too.”

 

Waverly rolls up on an elbow and looks softly at her sister, at the raw pain and emotion in her eyes that only Waverly gets to see. 

 

“My student loans would beg to differ, Wy. Triple majoring in Ancient Languages, Forensic Science and Archaeology isn’t going to pay for itself. Besides,” she adds honestly, “If you really didn’t want me to get involved, you wouldn’t have left me to my own devices for three years. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing more important than saving the world. We’re going to find Clutie together and you’re going to take her head and end this curse. We  _ is  _ the team, Wynonna,” Waverly grins at her.

 

Wynonna blows air through her lips and stares up at the ceiling. “I should have known you’d figure out a way to be a part of this. I could never get anything past you.” She reaches towards Waverly and palms her entire face, shoving her back down into her pillow with an exaggerated sigh, drawing a giggle from Waverly. “You’re my favorite person in the whole, wide world, babygirl. I couldn’t do this without you.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me for chapter five.
> 
> Thanks and apologies again to any Scottish readers for bearing with me. I hope you're enjoying the story enough to let me slide on some of the fiction I've created. I'm still looking at you @jnsbeth
> 
> Thanks as always to my reluctant beta @comelayinmybed for reading through and being on the receiving end of long text streams about where the story is going. 
> 
> You can chat with me on Twitter @LuckyWantsTo.


	6. Chapter 6

**Washington, DC: 2018**

 

A large banner hanging over the entryway to the conference hall declares, “Welcome to the International Conference on Women In Law Enforcement”. Wynonna, clad in her usual attire of leather over denim pushes her way through to the registration table. She feels naked without Peacemaker but ironically the law requires that a fixed blade knife of any length carried in public be worn visibly, and you can pack one in your luggage without question. It’s easier to wear her blade that way, even if it does earn her the odd look.

 

Before Waverly, things would have looked totally different. She still can’t believe that this is her life, two years into a career with the Purgatory Sheriff’s Department on assignment to a clandestine US Marshals Service task force called Black Badge, investigating supernatural occurrences in their small corner of the Alberta Province. Clutie could be hiding anywhere, but Wynonna knows the Ghost River Triangle is where the Gathering will come to pass, and she intends to find Clutie first. The full resources of Black Badge are her best bet in a high tech world. 

 

Hundreds of years as a bounty hunter have honed Wynonna’s skills. She’s dangerously fast with her knife and skilled with a gun, and to be honest, it’s hard to keep cops employed in the Ghost River Triangle. Desperation and Gus’s good word to Nedley secured Wynonna employment, although even after all these years, Nedley still views her with some suspicion. But the Ghost River Triangle is a bastion of unexplained phenomenon and Nedley deliberately avoids paying attention to it. It also doesn’t hurt that Wynonna’s brilliant sister, and everyone’s favorite person, Waverly, is a Black Badge analyst who promised Nedley that she would keep Wynonna in line. All the headbutting Wynonna does with Nedley, however, is nothing compared to the raging bitch who is her boss: Jeannie Lucado. 

 

They’d almost forgotten that Lucado, in a rare moment of something that might have been interpreted as thoughtfulness, had registered Wynonna to attend this event. “Go to the WILE conference. Maybe you’ll learn something useful, make a connection or...find another job,” Lucado had sneered under her breath, looking at Wynonna as if she were something nasty on the bottom of her Louboutins. Wynonna’s certainly not going to thumb her nose at an all expenses paid trip to the States, including a first class airline ticket with free drinks, and a hotel room with a mini-bar. She thanks her lucky stars that Lucado hates Purgatory, and spends as little time as her job will allow in the Ghost River Triangle.

 

She picks up her plastic name badge and slings the blue lanyard around her neck. “Wynonna Earp, US Marshals Service, Purgatory, Alberta, Canada” the tag reads. Grabbing an itinerary and complementary tote bag, Wynonna makes her way into the main hall where a trade show is underway.  _ Might as well grab some free swag _ , she thinks. 

 

Wynonna stops at a booth marketing facial recognition software. She cocks her head skeptically, reading the promotional summary which promises that the software is ten times more successful than the competition at identifying previously unknown individuals. Wynonna’s just thinking how much easier her life...or really  _ Waverly’s _ could be if she invented a software that identified and tracked Immortals...or even just the latest disappointment from humankind: Mercenaries. She wouldn’t have to rely on word of mouth or research or instinct to find them.  _ Waverly could stop wearing out her eyesight staring at her laptop all day _ , she thinks fondly. She’s considering all of this when a quiet voice near her ear chimes in and a buzz she hasn’t felt in years settles down her spine.

 

“This facial recognition stuff is amazing but also kinda hilarious. Have you seen the meme about how Face ID will steal your soul after three login attempts?” 

 

The voice is lilting and softly humored, and Wynonna’s hand slides towards her hip as she whips around to look at the owner, a tall redhead with the hint of a smirk on her lips and her hands relaxed at her sides. Her demeanor is so non-threatening that Wynonna almost questions her senses, but the incessant humming in her ears has her edgy and breathless. 

 

The woman continues, her eyes on the display, speech almost too calm. “Do you watch ‘Game of Thrones’? I saw this GIF with Arya Stark in that room full of faces,” she guffaws loudly at the memory, “A girl needs no ‘home’ button!” 

 

Wynonna takes in scarred muscular forearms poking out of dark pushed-up sleeves, and the cross body tactical backpack with an old school wooden police baton secured in a Molle holster. She thinks she’s placed the accent, and the Immortal behind it.  _ Of all the places to finally meet _ , she thinks. 

 

“Scottish?” she asks. 

 

“Nicole Haught,” the woman grins, holding out her hand and nodding, “Police Services of Scotland.” She reaches out and flicks Wynonna’s name tag. “Earp, eh? Like the famous lawman?” Wynonna’s looking at this woman, agape, thinking  _ no one said her name was Hot _ , when Nicole leans in to mutter confidentially. “I don’t know anyone else here and they have free donuts at the Forefront Insurance table. If we hurry, I can distract them while you grab a box.” 

 

Wynonna’s eyes narrow suspiciously at the gregarious redhead, but she can’t help herself thinking curiously,  _ What’s her game?  _ while at the same time reprimanding herself for letting her guard down so blatantly.  _ She came close enough to kill you, Earp _ , she chastises. 

 

“What’s the matter?” Nicole asks innocently. “You don’t like donuts?”

 

“I uh...don’t much like... cops,” Wynonna retorts lamely, “but donuts are just fine.” 

 

Nicole straightens up and cocks her head at Wynonna appraisingly. “Unless there’s a warrant out for your arrest, you’re kinda at an entire convention...just for cops,” she deadpans, in her mildy guttural drawl, gesturing around at the hundred or so women in law enforcement milling about the lobby, “which means we’d better hurry if we want any donuts.”

 

Wynonna purses her lips while she decides. Then, wagging a finger at Nicole she pronounces, “You have a point there Haught Scot. Let’s go.”

 

As they wander the trade show, Nicole considers the decision she made to approach Wynonna so brazenly, knowing almost nothing besides what she’d learned years ago and fleeting rumors picked up here and there. She’d felt the buzz and almost fled, until she saw the tag with  _ that  _ name on it. Nicole looked around at her law enforcement peers and decided that there would never be a better setting than a conference full of armed cops in which to finally introduce herself.  _ Some kind of crazy fate put us together here _ , Nicole reasons, and she’s ready to do almost anything to finish the Game. 

 

She’s resigned herself to the fact that Clutie is the enemy who must lose at any cost, but she’s no longer interested in giving up and going down without a fight. It’s been too long on this earth, with too much loss and heartbreak, but now hundreds of years after her birth, Nicole has found a way to belong, to serve and protect, and she can’t help feeling protective of humanity, even as humanity has continued to disappoint her. 

 

She can tell Wynonna isn’t going to be the sharing type right away; she’s prickly and jumpy like she’s hiding a secret. Nicole recognizes this behavior and thinks sadly,  _ Wynonna must have someone special in her life.  _ It’s so much harder to make the Game the center of your universe when that spot is occupied by a person. She decides the best approach to forging any kind of relationship with Wynonna is slow and gentle, like soothing a spooked horse, and goes for small talk. “I just want to point out that I sourced these donuts that you are currently eating all of, so you owe it to me to tell me something about yourself. How about the story of that last name? Any relation to the famous gunslinger?” 

 

“Anything’s possible,” Wynonna replies tersely, throwing Nicole a challenging look. 

 

_ Too much _ , Nicole thinks. She holds her hands up appeasingly. “So, tell me about the US Marshals?” she prompts, gesturing at Wynonna’s tag, changing to what she hopes is a safer subject. 

 

“I’m assigned to a task force called Black Badge,” Wynonna says, because anyone could find that out on their own if they wanted to. “Our mandate is to investigate unusual phenomena in the Ghost River Triangle. I...uh...specifically track...let’s call them fugitives, who need to be located and….apprehended.”  _ Really smooth Earp _ , Wynonna chastises herself. 

 

“So you’re kind of like a government bounty hunter, eh?” Nicole asks innocently, as if she doesn’t know who and what Wynonna probably ‘hunts’. 

 

“Black Badge is multi-jurisdictional, probably even international...who knows?” Wynonna replies pointedly, tossing her donut box in a trash can. “I can pretty much go anywhere I need to go to deal with the  _ fugitive _ , you understand?” 

 

They’re standing at the entrance to the main hall now, at an impasse. Nicole, looking for a distraction, starts digging through a table full of conference papers, business cards and coupons for local restaurants. Wynonna doesn’t know what to do. Part of her is screaming to just dispatch this Immortal now, and move on, it’ll be one step closer to the unavoidable Gathering, but Xavier’s calm voice breaks through.  _ Give this a chance, Wynonna _ ,  _ for Waverly. _ “Always so reasonable,” Wynonna mutters under her breath to Xavier’s ghost, and nearly jumps out of her skin when Nicole’s hand abruptly rises into view. 

  
“Pub Crawl?” she offers, waggling a flyer Wynonna’s way.

 

************

“It just seemed like you could use a drink,” Nicole laughs gently, “and who can resist 50% off well drinks until seven?” She pushes away their empties and holds up two fingers at the bartender, who delivers a couple more brightly-colored concoctions to their end of the bar. “What even is this?” she asks skeptically, peering through the glass.

 

“You’re not wrong about the drink,” Wynonna admits, “but you’re also not keeping up.” She shoves a bottle towards Nicole.  “Have a whiskey chaser with that there Pink Pussycat, Red.”

 

They’ve been loosening up over the past hour and, maybe against her better judgement, Wynonna’s starting to like Nicole, especially as she quickly realizes that the other woman can’t maintain her cookie-cutter cop persona under the influence...and she’s a total lightweight. She watches Nicole squint at the cocktail, her tongue between her teeth, and decides that before they’re too wasted, they’d better address the elephant in the room.

 

“So, Haught,” she starts, in a tone that causes Nicole to immediately snap to attention, “are you going to kill me?”

 

Nicole looks at Wynonna carefully, making sure to keep her palms flat on the bar when she answers. “Nope, are you?”

 

Wynonna breathes a noisy sigh of relief, slumping forward over her glass against the bar. She believes Nicole and surprises herself by feeling that she can relax a little. “I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t challenge me first. I’ve always just hoped the Game could like...run itself out. This is what we’re talking about, right?” Wynonna looks sideways at Nicole, suddenly afraid they’re having two different conversations. 

 

But she watches Nicole’s deep brown eyes soften as she leans close along the bar, placing her hand atop Wynonna’s. “Listen Earp,” she says. “I have lost too many important people to want to take a life without cause. I’m more of a lover than a fighter,” she adds with a wry smile.

 

And the moment is so unexpected, so intensely emotional, that Wynonna, staring down at the scarred slender fingers covering her own, can only make a joke. “Sorry Haught,” Wynonna laughs, “I know this body is to die for, but I like dudes,” She gestures broadly at her entire self, slipping her hand out from under Nicole’s in the process. 

 

The spell is broken as Nicole laughs loudly and smacks Wynonna on the arm, “I didn’t mean you, asshole. Anyhow, while I don’t entirely believe you, you’re not my type. Too much barbarian and not enough brainiac.” 

 

************

 

By the fifth pub Nicole is absolutely hammered. “Wynonna,” she mumbles, “A'm counting on ye tae have mah back.” It’s the first time since Shae that she’s really let her guard down.  _ God _ , she thinks blurrily,  _ the relief of relaxing is almost worth the risk _ . 

 

“OK, lightweight,” Wynonna laughs, “I’ve got you.” And she means it; Xavier was the only Immortal who ever really made her feel safe, but there’s something about this woman that’s chipping through her defenses.

 

They’re seated at the bar at the Old Ebbitt Inn. Wynonna’s somehow gotten a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps and they’re doing more shots. Nicole is loudly telling a story about falling off a cliff during rock climbing and nearly tearing her arm off, and somehow it’s funny. She’s gesticulating wildly with the shot glass in hand, Schnapps sloshing about as she reaches the punchline of her story, “'n' that's how I git this scar” she yells, prodding proudly at the twisted puckered flesh running up her arm.

 

Wynonna cackles and takes her own shot, grabbing at Nicole as they laugh and sway. “Your accent gets stronger when you’re drunk,” she observes. Nicole pauses, her brow creasing and lips pursing as she attempts to process Wynonna’s comment before reaching over and running a finger lightly over Wynonna’s own scarred forearm. “What about these?” she enunciates slowly. “Hae did you come by them?”

 

Wynonna sombers, looking down at the marks, then shakes her head and smiles sadly at Nicole. “The first one happened by accident. He came to me in the woods...it seems like I was always in the woods. I had just turned twenty-seven years, more than half the life of a woman of that time. The man who came looked different. I still remember like it was yesterday; his long blond hair and beard, a Viking maybe, and his weapon was a battleaxe.” 

 

Wynonna pauses to refill their shot glasses, but swirls the liquid in her own before continuing. “I always had my blade, but that battleaxe was so heavy and he surprised me. He chopped at my arm like you cut a log. Even though I parried, he nicked me here.” She points to the first scar, a straight line closest to the crook of her elbow. 

 

“I thought I was fighting to the death, and I didn’t even know why! I assumed he meant to rape me, being a woman alone in the woods. When he buried the axe in my shoulder, it cut me from neck to sternum. I knew I would die. The blade was lodged in the bones of my chest. It burned like fire.” Wynonna presses her hand to her collarbone and downs the shot, then looks over at Nicole with flint in her gaze. “When he leaned in to pull out the axe he lingered too long to say the words.”

 

Nicole and Wynonna’s voices overlap as they both whisper, “ _ There can be only one _ .” 

 

“With the last of my strength, I took his head,” Wynonna says with finality. “I wasn’t going to let a man kill me and not take him with. It happened for me then….the Quickening. Every Immortal I took after that, I made the mark. It wasn’t until I met my First Teacher that I finally understood what the Game was.” Wynonna rolls her arm and stretches her neck, smirking. “That was a bitch to heal, too. Still aches sometimes, after all these years. How unfair is that?”

 

Nicole nods at the unfairness of the entire deal, and thinks about the different ways they’ve both paid for their Immortality over time.  _ A little normalcy feels really fucking good _ , she thinks. 

 

“I think,” Nicole starts, the alcohol thickening her tongue and the mood too bleak to maintain, “I think...we need tae go git pancakes.” And Wynonna can only smile at her new friend because even if the circumstances that have drawn them together are undefined, she’s on Wynonna’s wavelength. 

 

“Come on Hopscotch,” she jokes, slapping money on the bar and pulling Nicole off her stool, “we passed a twenty-four hour diner on the way over here and I could murder a stack of pancakes. My treat.” 

 

************

 

“You know who’s really into accents,” Wynonna says without thinking, pouring syrup all over her plate while also stealing bacon off of Nicole’s,“...is Waverly! She speaks like four languages.” She looks wistful for a moment as she thinks of her perfect sister, deserving of nothing else in the world but all that is good. “She’s actually a researcher for Black Badge,” she surprises herself by admitting. 

 

Nicole pries her eyes from the horrible sight of Wynonna’s pancakes drowning in almost an inch of syrup.  _ Waverly, _ she thinks,  _ that’s her person...her reason to fight _ . She can hear it in the barely suppressed pride and admiration in Wynonna’s tone, and settles herself patiently to find out who this mortal is who could tame a lone wolf like Wynonna. 

 

“She would  _ love _ to hang out with someone like you,” Wynonna insists, backhanding Nicole’s shoulder while fumbling for her cellphone to show off a picture of Waverly. “My baby sister,” she announces, gazing lovingly at the photo. 

 

Nicole leans in and squints at the phone, where a vision with honey hair and a winsome smile beams back at her. “Lovely,” she says, slowly but clearly, one fingertip touching the screen, because what’s the harm in admiring a pretty girl? 

 

“I wish you guys could meet sometime,” Wynonna says, almost wistfully. “She’s into chicks too,” she adds abruptly, “so you probably know each other's exes or something.” 

 

Nicole laughs, “Ah, uh, dinnae think it works lik' that.” She frowns, more sober than before but still recalling Wynonna’s comment about her accent and tries again “I. Don’t. Think. It. Works. Like. That,” she enunciates carefully. “Anyway...how is it possible? A sister? I’ve never heard of Immortals who were sisters.”

 

“Oh Waverly’s not Immortal,” Wynonna clarifies, “she’s something else entirely. I’ve never told anyone this, Nicole,” Wynonna says, surprising herself with her honesty, “but Waverly saved my life. She came to me when I was in a dark place and gave me something to fight for again. She was just a baby then, but I knew almost right away that we needed each other. Have you ever felt that way for someone?”

 

And Nicole leans back, thinking about the hundreds of years of experiences she’s had, casual dalliances and guarded friendships, mostly short-lived as she always had to move on, eventually, lest she draw attention to her unchanging appearance. 

 

“In the beginning…” she swallows; it’s been decades since she spoke of Aileen. “In the beginning, I was in love. She knew that I was Immortal from the first time she saw me cheat death, and many times after that, and it never frightened her like it did the rest. She really saw me. She gave up everything for me, my Aileen. The chance to have children, a real life maybe…” Nicole trails off as the memories rise as fresh as if they were yesterday: Aileen welcoming her home in the evenings with a hot stew, making love in their meadow, the joy that always graced Aileen’s face when she looked at Nicole.

 

_ “How come do ye bide wi' me when ye'v stayed young 'n' a'm auld. How kin ye look at me?”  Aileen had asked in the end, and Nicole could only hold her, whispering assurances of love and promises to never forget her. She’d burned their house to the ground when Aileen left her, and rode out that very day without a backwards glance.  _

 

“She gave me the only real life I’ve ever known. After Aileen, I vowed never to fall in love again. I swore I wouldn’t because...what’s the point, when you always have to leave them?” Nicole looks beseechingly at Wynonna, who can only look away. 

  
Nicole cuts up her pancakes, eating in silence for a moment until it becomes uncomfortable. “What about you?” she asks. “Were you ever in love with someone?”

 

Wynonna doesn’t hesitate. “No,” she lies firmly, pushing Xavier out of her mind. “No offense, but I’ve never done anything that stupid.”  

 

“But what about Waverly?” Nicole counters. “How do you allow yourself to love her?”

 

“Waverly’s different,” Wynonna snaps, “we need each other. No man... or woman,” she admits, “ever needed me for anything more than sex. But with Waverly, it’s about something bigger...the greater good. It’s like…” Wynonna stares at the blinking neon diner sign as if searching for a clue, “there’s a reason for both of us being put in this place together, and if anyone can figure out what it is, it’s gonna be Waves.” 

 

Wynonna flaps her hand dismissively. “It’s just easier to stay focused if I don’t get too involved with people.”  _ Forgive me Xavier _ , she thinks. 

 

Nicole chews reflectively for a while then shrugs. “Well, at least you didn’t get drunk married and then divorced.” She sighs deeply at Wynonna’s raised eyebrow.

 

**_Glasgow: 2015_ **

 

_ Shae stands stoically, arms crossed as she watches Nicole pack her duffel bag with her few items of clothing.  _

 

_ “So this is it, eh? You’re leaving, just like that?” _

 

_ Nicole sighs heavily. “Shae, we just...it was fun...but we let things get a little out of control. We were never going to be able to stay together! I told you right from the start I was taking the posting in Achfary if I could get it.” _

 

_ “How the hell were you not going to get it, Nicole? Nobody’s interested in being a Constable in the remotest part of the Highlands. But that isn’t the point! We’re married! I love you, Nicole!” _

 

_ “Shae!” Nicole yells, fighting with the zipper, then slamming her hands on the duffel in frustration. “We were drunk when we got married. It was meant to be a joke, for god sake. I mean who would let Anderson actually marry people?” She waves her palms dismissively in the air.  “Nevermind. Look, I love...loved, spending time with you...but, I’m not in love with you.” And she watches Shae’s face fall at that statement.  _

 

_ Nicole’s heart breaks then, because she has to lie and hurt Shae, if only to protect her from the Game.  _ I deserve this _ , she thinks,  _ for letting my heart go in the first place _.  _

 

_ Shae’s voice trembles when she speaks. “You told me you loved me, Nicole, when you thought I was going to die not a month ago. What happened? It took me nearly getting murdered for you to say it and now you say it was never true at all?” _

 

_ Nicole’s blood runs like ice as she remembers the Mercenary who’d attacked Shae in what the police were documenting as a botched robbery attempt. The fact that Shae was pistol-whipped and almost immediately knocked unconscious proved to be a blessing of sorts; she’d missed the battle and the Mercenary's subsequent death at Nicole’s hands, as she held him down with her staff across his throat and the Mercenary laughed.  _

 

_ “Clutie says to tell you we’re coming for you and yours,” he’d choked out through blood-flecked saliva. “She says this bitch will die just like Aileen did, just like Doc did. Clutie promises me a place in her kingdom when the Prize is hers. There can be only one!”  _

 

_ Nicole almost didn’t hear the sickening crunch when her staff crushed his windpipe, so blinded was she by an avalanche of sorrow. Now, she feels like she’s watching a stranger break Shae’s heart. She knows Shae won’t beg her to stay; she has enough self-worth to know she deserves better than a person who will hurt her the way Nicole is.  _

 

_ “I’ll take care of the lawyer, Nicole,” Shae says with steel in her eyes and finality in her tone. “Don’t call me.”  _

 

Nicole grimaces. “Not my finest moment. She said she forgave me, when it was all said and done, but also asked me to not contact her ever again. It’s fine...considering all this,” she finishes, gesturing at herself lamely. 

 

“Ouch,” Wynonna says shortly, then shakes her head. 

 

***********

 

“Ah hae ne'er drank this much in three days,” Nicole laments boozily, simultaneously leaning over the bar and waving down the bartender. 

 

It’s the final day of the Women in Law Enforcement conference and Wynonna has taken Nicole out to a liquid lunch, on the BBD credit card. Wynonna throws back her drink without even looking at it, and Nicole follows suit, gasping and slapping her palm on the table, before picking up her beer and taking a slug. Wynonna holds her phone in her hand, texting someone.

 

“I have an idea,” she tells Nicole with a cunning gleam in her eye. “You need to come to Purgatory and I know how we can make it work-related. I actually paid attention in that panel on the importance of interagency cooperation. I just need to convince my boss, Lucado, to let you come work on some...mutually weird cases.”

 

“I think we both know I’m coming to Purgatory anyhow,” Nicole says, struggling to sound articulate through her drunken haze.

 

“Look, Lucado and Black Badge...they know about the existence of the Immortals. They don’t know that I’m one though...just that I happen to be really good at finding them. The problem is that they’re always dead already.” Wynonna’s not proud of the fact that she is the reason that any Immortals who survive venturing into the Ghost River Triangle to look for her typically end up dead, so she stays quiet on that front.

 

“Black Badge is desperate for us to capture a live one, but not desperate enough to give us any more resources than my posting there and an occasional visit from the science guy. The boss doesn’t even stay long enough for coffee, when she does come out to the office. Honestly, Waverly’s research is what makes it easy to find them. If I told them you could maybe help, it’s like free labor. What government agency doesn’t like people who work for free?

 

“As for the locals, Purgatory Sheriff is our host agency, and they just know that someone has recently decapitated a few more people than usual for our region and they want that to stop, so we pretty much have unlimited use of their resources,” Wynonna laughs humorlessly, “which are actually pretty limited,” she adds under her breath. 

 

“I know Scotland is old as shit, Haught, but things are  _ weird _ in Purgatory. People like you and me are far from the weirdest thing happening there, trust me.”

 

“Well…” Nicole purses her lips in thought, “you can always tell your boss that I’m investigating...some animated garden gnomes or something.” She laughs, loud and bright for a moment until she sees Wynonna’s serious expression.

 

“You have no idea how oddly right you are, Nicole,” Wynonna replies slowly “I will definitely pitch Lucado on the international gnomes ring.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Tuesday to you. I hope you are continuing to enjoy the story. 
> 
> Thanks as usual to @jnsbeth for being my unwitting translator (bwahahaha), and to @comelayinmybed for being my reluctant beta. Hard to believe she found as many missing commas as she did.
> 
> Come chat with me on Twitter @LuckyWantsTo


	7. Chapter 7

**Purgatory, Alberta: 2018**

 

Lucado steps into the BBD offices, her facial expression the usual, “sour lemon.”

 

“Waverly, good, you’re here,” Lucado states unnecessarily, and Waverly looks up hopefully. “You can get us some coffees.” 

 

Waverly opens her mouth to point out that she’s been there all day, the books spread everywhere are hers, and she is obviously working at  _ her job, in her office _ , but instead, with an annoyed huff, she heads to the breakroom. 

 

“Wynonna,” Lucado says, and it sound like it causes her physical pain to do so. “The exchange program is a go. Nedley was pleased to have Lonnie gone for a while. This officer...Haught...will be starting at PSD in a week. She’ll be here for a few months and will rotate in to assist on some of the international Black Badge priorities. I hope you’re right about her expertise, what with Scotland being a hotbed of paranormal activity.”

 

The following week finds Nicole looking around Nedley’s office, reading the framed awards, leaning in to peer closely at a series of black and white photos, and admiring his taxidermy mounts when the Sheriff comes in. 

 

“These are some great pictures, Sheriff,” she says, “Do you still have any family outside Canada?”

 

“I do indeed,” he puffs, adjusting his belt and pointing out a pair of black and white photos. “In fact, that there is my great-granddaddy, also Randy Nedley, who ran a Pony Express outpost back in the day. I come from a long line of Randall Nedleys,” he laughs. “My daddy emigrated to Canada as a young man because he met a lady from here, my mother. I’ve lived in the Ghost River Triangle my whole life. Seems like forever!” 

 

_ What would it be like to have spent your whole life in one place _ ? Nicole wonders. But she has a good feeling about this Randy Nedley, remembering his ancestor who took a chance on her way back when. “Seems like a nice place to end up,” she smiles.

 

************

 

Waverly’s hunched over the conference table in the middle of the BBD offices. As usual she has her laptop up, bracketed by a stack of dusty tomes; she’s muttering as she jumps back and forth between screen and page, intent upon her research. She’s been there a couple hours already, it was dark when she got there and it will be dark when she goes home, and she’s just started thinking wistfully of a good cup of coffee when the door bangs open and Wynonna struts in, awkwardly balancing a drink carrier and a box of donuts in one hand, while reading her cell phone with the other. The remains of a white powdered donut stick out of her mouth. 

 

“Gerrs sommun hrr gnu...big giant reheh,” Wynonna announces. Waverly blinks up at her, questioningly. “Wynonna?”   
  


Wynonna deposits a cup of coffee in front of a grateful Waverly, crams the rest of the donut in her mouth, chews and swallows. She takes a healthy slug of her own coffee, exhaling with a grimace at the heat before trying again. “There’s someone new here, some big giant redhead. A cop. Nedley’s showing her around. Also, I brought you dinner.” She indicates the donut box with a self-satisfied smirk. 

 

Not much happens in Purgatory, outside of the supernatural day-to-day goings on. New people, actual  _ people _ , don’t really show up and Waverly’s so very curious about everything. “Let’s go see what that’s about!” She grabs her coffee and heads into the bullpen. 

 

Wynonna wasn’t wrong, the stranger is tall, but “big giant redhead” is not the description Waverly would have chosen. No, had Waverly been asked to describe this person she would have said something more like “Gorgeous, mysterious, athletic babe.” Nedley and the officer, because her clothing clearly indicates her law enforcement affiliation, are poking around the holding cell area. 

 

Wynonna is bouncing around with an uncharacteristic enthusiasm that makes Waverly look at her mistrustfully. Nedley catches sight of Wynonna first, and rolls his eyes, but then sees Waverly and his look softens. “Nicole Haught,” he announces, “this is Waverly Earp, Wynonna’s sister, and Black Badge researcher. Purgatory is lucky to have gotten her assigned here,” he announces fondly. Nedley clears his throat, still addressing Waverly, “Nicole’s from the Police Service of Scotland. She’s here on an exchange program for a few months. We sent Lonnie over there. God help ‘em.” Nedley smirks into his mug of coffee as he takes a sip.

 

Suddenly Waverly realises: this is the woman Wynonna met at the WILE conference. The one she actually referred to as “kinda cool” which led to Waverly feeling Wynonna’s forehead and Wynonna laughing and pushing her away. “I can make friends, Waverly,” Wynonna had insisted, pressing her fingertip against Waverly’s smirking lips, “and before you say anything...not that kind of friend.”

 

Wynonna is unchanged from their first meeting, Nicole observes, in skin-tight pants and a peekaboo shirt, but this time with the addition of an antique revolver slung low on her slim hips, opposite her ever-present hunting knife. Nicole can feel the latent power of the gun even from across the room; it’s an Immortal’s weapon and she wonders at its provenance. Filing this information away for later, her eyes travel over to Waverly and warm slightly, lowering briefly when she catches Waverly staring back at her, raking her gaze over Nicole’s face and down her body, before dropping shyly back to the floor. 

 

The fact is, Wynonna’s cell phone pictures did not do Waverly justice. She’s adorable in a sheer floral blouse, buttoned to the top, a smart blazer, slim trousers and ankle boots. Adorable, but also dangerously hot. A slight smirk creases the corner of Nicole’s mouth and a dimple on the corresponding cheek pops, and Waverly actually sighs out loud. 

 

_ Jesus, Haught _ , Nicole scolds herself,  _ a pretty girl will literally be the death of you if you don’t get a grip. _

 

“All the way from Scotland to little old Purgatory, eh,” Wynonna says loudly into the silence, and she pokes at Nicole in an all-too-familIar way for Waverly’s taste. Putting on what Waverly can only assume is her best Outlander impression Wynonna asks,  “Didja bring us any Scootch?” 

 

Nicole stares at Wynonna, and Waverly twitches awkwardly; nervous to impress the sexy exchange-cop she begins to ramble. “Wynonna,” she admonishes her sister,  “Scotland’s known for a lot more than just Scotch! Did you know that the country includes over 700 islands? And 13% of the population have red hair, just like Officer Haught! OH! I assume you go by ‘Officer’...or Constable maybe? And the language has four main dialects! And each dialect has a subdialect of course...Doric, Lallans, Glesca,” Waverly rattles them off, dreamy-eyed, then slows, realizing that everyone in the room is staring at her. “Ah...err...sorry Officer Haught, I’m fascinated by languages.” Her eyes crinkle as she winks cutely, “You might say I’m a cunning linguist!”

 

Wynonna turns her entire upper body to stare agog at Waverly, “That was just...terrible, babygirl.”

 

Nicole smiles sympathetically at Waverly, but she can’t help showing off a little as, with a last sideways look at Wynonna she opens her mouth and says, “Braw! Ah didnae ken we'd be sharing an affice! That’s well radge!”

 

Waverly’s still trying to figure out how she can speak four languages fluently and barely understand a word of what just came out of Nicole’s admittedly very pretty mouth. Nedley stares at Nicole with an odd expression and Waverly’s just about to ask what region of Scotland Nicole hails from, when their part-time forensic scientist Jeremy bursts into the office, an ocher-stained container in his hands.

 

“Waverly! I need to put this somewhere, like  _ right now _ ,” he emphasizes loudly, “and I  _ really _ need to stop touching this…” he mutters to himself, running for the BBD office door.  Waverly moves to follow him. “Nice meeting you, Nicole,” she calls, backing towards the office door, “I hope we can talk more sometime soon!” 

 

Nicole just waves after her with a smile, turning back to Nedley. 

 

“What the he…,” Nedley starts. 

 

“I get nervous around strangers and my accent shows!” Nicole blurts, hoping that’s a convincingly reasonable explanation, as Wynonna rolls her eyes and follows Waverly out of the bullpen. 

 

Nedley looks sympathetic. “Listen, Nicole,” he soothes, “those Earp girls are a right handful, but Waverly’s the sweetest ray of sunshine you’ll ever meet. No need to be nervous around her!” Nedley considers her, a little too shrewdly, Nicole thinks. “You can’t do much better than being a friend to Waverly,” Nedley finishes. “Come on, let me take you around town.” 

 

*********

 

“It’s late, babygirl,” Wynonna says, wandering into the living room in a patterned onesie complete with fur lined hood. “What are you even doing?”

 

Waverly looks up from her laptop and rubs her eyes. “What are you even...wearing? You know what?...Never mind. I’m reading about Scottish colloquialisms. I think it would make Nicole feel more comfortable if I could, you know, speak her language...” Waverly blushes lightly when she adds, “Look, I know they speak English in Scotland but she might appreciate the effort…”

 

This is a first for Wynonna, having to deal with her sister’s attraction to another person in real time, and she doesn’t know how to handle it. “You’re hot for Haught,” Wynonna teases, “and I don’t blame you except that when she opened her mouth I felt like someone had just blown an airhorn.” Wynonna grabs Waverly’s shoulders and shakes her lightly. 

 

“Wynonna stop, I’m just trying to be nice,” Waverly insists, pushing her away.

 

“Well nice is all you need to be, Waves,” Wynonna says, this time more seriously. “Nicole’s not staying long enough for anyone to be anything more than friendly...and anyhow she’s a grade-A player. She’s actually divorced already you know, at what like...26?”

 

Waverly sighs, even as a sinking feeling settles in her stomach. “I appreciate your ever-present protectiveness, sis, but I can take care of myself. Get us some snacks?” She watches, thoughts racing, as Wynonna pads to the kitchen. 

 

*********

 

Nicole and Waverly are in the station break room. Waverly’s not going to say that she timed her trip for coffee to coincide with the hot Scot’s break time, but she’s not going to say that she  _ didn’t _ do that either. They’ve made their drinks in companionable silence, and now they find themselves leaning against opposite counters smiling at each other.

 

“Teach me something Scottish,” Waverly asks shyly, and Nicole tilts her head to the side, considering.

 

“Ye ken we speak English in Scotland, dinnae ye?”  _ Jesus, Nicole _ , she thinks, embarrassed by herself. 

 

Waverly scrambles to reassure Nicole that  _ of course _ she knows that, “I hope you don’t think I’m weird for asking! I just...Purgatory’s such a small town and I’ve always wanted to travel. I spend so much time online looking at places...to actually have someone here from one of those places…” she trails off. “It’s ok, we can just...”

 

“My uh...accent’s not really that thick, Waverly, I’m just playing with you,” Nicole admits, smiling ruefully, then leaning in as if sharing a confidence. “Except when I’m nervous apparently...and drinking. Your sister actually got to hear a little too much of it at the conference... but I would love to talk to you about Scotland. Would you...want to get a drink sometime?”

 

Waverly thinks about her sister’s warning, considers the fact that Nicole’s been here for less than a week and she’s already asking her out. She thinks of the life Wynonna lives, and remembers her...no  _ their _ priority. For the first time in her life she feels regret to give something up for her sister, but she sets her shoulders and looks Nicole in the eye, jaw tight and a polite smile fixed on her face. 

 

“I’m sorry, Nicole, I’m not really available for  _ that _ . But thanks.” Rounding on her heel she leaves the break room, with a confused Nicole staring bemusedly after her. 

 

************

 

“The usual, Waverly?” Shorty asks, as she slides onto the barstool, resting her head on her hands atop the scarred oak counter. “Plenty of it,” she sighs gratefully, as Shorty slides a large whiskey her way. She sips deeply, the liquor just starting to warm her insides when a silky voice interrupts her reverie.

 

“Do you come here often?” Nicole asks, mentally smacking herself hard in the face for the generic pick-up line. 

 

Waverly looks sideways at Nicole. She can’t deny that Nicole’s awfully easy on the eyes, and obviously interested in her. _She’s not staying_ , she thinks, chastising herself for admiring the way Nicole’s hair gleams in the low lighting of Shorty’s. _Would it be so bad if it was just sex?_ the little devil on her shoulder whispers, as she mentally flicks it to the floor _._ She clears her throat. “Maybe too often,” she replies, “and clearly that’s not the best decision for me. Did you follow me here, Nicole?”

 

Nicole looks taken aback, and Waverly momentarily regrets being so short with her. “I’m sorry, Waverly,” Nicole says sincerely, “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable earlier when I asked you for a drink. I was just hoping we could...be friends.” 

 

Waverly sighs, tipping her whiskey glass and looking deep into the liquid. “Friends sound good but...I just...have a lot on my mind and stopped in for a quick drink. My life is….really complicated, Nicole. Maybe some other time we can hang out? I need to head home to Wynonna now.”  

 

Nicole watches, mouth agape in confusion as Waverly shoves her glass away and tosses some wadded cash on the bar, then wraps her fluffy blue scarf around her neck and buttons up her heavy coat, gathering her bag and offering a final, oddly sad look Nicole’s way, before bustling out the door. 

 

Nicole sits for a minute before coming to a decision. Shrugging on her parka, she slips quietly out of Shorty’s. Obviously Waverly knows about Wynonna’s Immortality, but she doesn’t know about Nicole. Wynonna had felt it would be easier this way, worried about how Waverly would react if she found out about Nicole. “My safety has always been Waverly’s priority,” Wynonna had explained. “If it comes to it we can tell her but probably it’s best to get her used to you first.”

 

Ever since she arrived in the Ghost River Triangle, and even more strongly in Purgatory, Nicole’s felt that incessant buzz humming quietly in the background, like a swarm of hornets has taken up residence along her spine...more than just Wynonna. The Gathering is drawing near and everyone close to Wynonna is in danger, and Immortals, one or many, are near, somewhere. And Waverly...there’s something about her that Nicole can’t put her finger on. She’s sweet and pure and everything Clutie would want most to destroy. 

 

_ It’s not weird to follow her _ , Nicole thinks, as she stands for a minute breathing deeply of the night air. It’s cold and crystal clear outside, and a thick mist rises from the sewer grates along the curbline. She can just see Waverly in the distance, striding purposefully down the sidewalk. Hugging the storefronts and sticking to the shadows, Nicole quietly tails Waverly,  _ just until I know she’s safe,  _ she assures herself. 

 

Waverly’s walking briskly when she senses, more than sees, a shape hurtling towards her. She takes a moment to set her feet before the Mercenary hits her, and they tumble to the ground in a squirming tangle. This one is large, with a crazed look in his reddened eyes. He pins Waverly’s shoulders to the ground with his forearm and raises his fist with a slavering smile, and Waverly notices then that his teeth are filed into actual points.

 

“There can be only one!” he bellows. “Clutie promises I’ll get whatever I want when it’s her! Your bitch fake sister is gonna die, girlie, and you’re gonna be the messenger!” 

 

“I hope what you want is dental care, you freak,” Waverly hisses, surprising the Merc with an elbow to the face. He draws back with a grunt, running the tip of his tongue over a bleeding lip,  before running a hand down her body and smiling lewdly. “Oh a fighter, eh? Maybe I’ll have a piece of you before I ruin that pretty face.”

 

“Gross,” Waverly scoffs, setting her feet under her hips in anticipation of throwing this Mercenary, when with a loud whistling noise, a hardwood baton strikes him across his temple. His eyes roll up in his head and he falls limply onto Waverly, who shoves him off with a disgusted noise. She sits up on her knees, gathering the contents of her spilled purse together. 

 

Over her shoulder she glimpses a wide-eyed Nicole breathing heavily with her police baton tucked along her forearm.  _ Shitsticks _ , she thinks,  _ how am I going to explain this to Nicole? _ Because it’s not in Waverly’s nature to be a victim, and she’s certainly not going to play one, even if it is a little sexy...getting rescued by Nicole. 

 

“Oh my god, Waverly,” Nicole exclaims, “Are you ok?” But she’s surprised to see Waverly rounding on her with a look of...is that annoyance? 

 

“What are you doing here, Nicole?” Waverly asks with a glare, adjusting her coat and picking up her bag from the street. 

 

Nicole rubs her neck uncomfortably and struggles for a good explanation. “What? I was uh...going this way and…” but Waverly’s not done yet. 

 

“How long have you been a cop, Nicole?” she demands. 

 

“A couple years, but Waverly, he was assaulting you!”

 

“You’re awfully impulsive,” Waverly continues, “you could take a moment to consider the situation you know!”

 

And Nicole feels the heat in her face as her temper rises, “I could well see the situation, Waverly! He was going to hurt you...maybe...rape you!” 

 

“You know, Nicole,” Waverly fires back, “I can take care of myself. You only have one life and if you value it, you should just go home!” 

 

“ _ I _ only have one life?!” Nicole rages, but before she can finish there’s a scuffling behind her and Waverly’s eyes widen. 

 

“Nicole,” she yells, “look out!”

 

But it’s too late. With a sickening crunch, the Merc’s fist connects with the back of Nicole’s head, and she crumples bonelessly to the ground. Waverly sighs impatiently as the Mercenary cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders. With an almost bored expression she pulls an enormous stainless Colt Python revolver from the depths of her bag. “It didn’t have to come to this,” she says almost gently, pulling back the hammer of the gun and pointing it directly at the Merc’s face. A myriad of emotions pass over his face, and Waverly briefly muses on how surprising it is that such a troglodyte can put together his impending fate that quickly. 

 

“Fuck this,” the Merc growls, backing away. “Your time will come, as will hers,” he kicks at Nicole’s prone form, “...and Wynonna’s.” 

 

“Tell Clutie to come fight her own battles,” Waverly calls after the Merc’s retreating form, waving a mocking hand after him. Pulling out her cellphone, Waverly types out a quick text. She slips the Colt back into her purse and sighs again, looking down at Nicole lying almost peacefully on the ground.

 

“Oh Nicole, what are we going to do with you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday. 
> 
> Thanks to @jnsbeth for Scot-Checking and, as always to @comelayinmybed for beta editing (even with a big vacation to plan for and participate in.) 
> 
> All errors are my own, but should be blamed on @em_mcconachie for making me hyper-aware that they exist. Eh, no one is perfect, right? 
> 
> Find me on Twitter @LuckyWantsTo


	8. Chapter 8

**Earp Homestead: 2018**

 

Nicole comes to slowly, a throbbing in the back of her head and a cool cloth on her face. She can hear low voices talking urgently behind her and determines that she’s in someone’s house, lying on a couch... and then her vision focuses on Waverly, who’s leaning over her. “Oh good, you’re awake,” Waverly says with a half-smile, reaching cautiously under Nicole’s ear and prodding gently. 

 

“Ow,” Nicole whines, before she can help herself. Hundreds of years on this Earth and she’s  _ whining _ like a child?  _ What the devil has come over me? _ Nicole thinks in dismay, just as Waverly looks back and calls over her shoulder. Against her better judgement, Nicole takes a moment to look her over, eyes greedily taking in Waverly’s sharp jawline, soft looking lips, and interesting nose. 

 

“Wynonna,” Waverly calls, “Nicole’s up.” She looks back at Nicole, who at least has the wherewithal to drop her eyes back into a convincingly pained squint, just as Wynonna comes into view over the back of the couch. “There you are, Haught,” Wynonna says, her relieved tone not jiving with the stink-eye she’s throwing at Nicole. “How ‘bout getting us some ice, babygirl?”

 

As Waverly walks off to the kitchen, Wynonna waits, listening until she hears the ancient freezer door creak open, before leaning down close to Nicole. “I oughta kick your ass for putting my sister in danger,” she hisses angrily.  “If you didn’t already have a head injury, I would give you one myself.” 

 

But despite herself, Nicole starts laughing, even as she holds a hand to her head in an attempt to stop the pounding there. 

 

“What the fuck is so funny?” Wynonna demands.

 

“A...a head injury, Wynonna! Get it...you’d give me a head injury!” And chuckling weakly, she draws a finger across her throat, in a pantomime of decapitation. “I’ve been unconscious for who knows how long. If you wanted to kill me you could have done it easily, so it’s hard for me to take you seriously when you threaten me like that.” 

 

Waverly comes back then, a knotted dishtowel full of ice in her hand, and narrows her eyes, glancing suspiciously between the two of them. “What are you two up to?” she asks slowly. “What’s so funny?” 

 

“Nothing, Waves,” Wynonna insists, shooting daggers at Nicole. “Officer Haught here has a funny way of dealing with stress, is all.”  Nicole moves to sit up on the couch and Wynonna pushes her back down by the shoulder. “Let’s just let her rest here and you and I can talk.”

 

Waverly looks down at Nicole. “Lift up,” she requests, and spreads a towel under Nicole’s head and shoulders, then hands her the ice pack. She pauses for a long moment, her eyes tracing Nicole’s face, then reaches over and adjust the towel under the ice, allowing her thumb to trace almost accidentally along the shell of Nicole’s ear. “Just...uh, rest, Nicole,” Waverly says awkwardly, a blush spreading across her cheeks as she turns abruptly and follows Wynonna into the kitchen.

  
“What the hell, Waves?” Wynonna whispers. 

 

“It was a Mercenary,” Waverly replies quietly, looking over her shoulder at Nicole, who’s now wincing and probing experimentally at her head. 

 

“So you said. I don’t mean just that,” Wynonna answers, “What’s with the googly eyes and the light touching? But also...the Mercenary….” she admits reluctantly. 

 

“Same as usual, said the words. This one had teeth filed into points, so that’s new,” Waverly adds, considering. “He said Clutie told him he can have whatever he wants, and she’s obviously having a lot of success recruiting...not that there’s any shortage of psychopaths out there.” 

 

Wynonna pulls a bottle of whiskey out from above the fridge and pours herself a healthy portion, then waggles it in Waverly’s direction. Waverly nods and accepts a chipped ceramic mug of her own. “So that makes three Mercenaries in Purgatory that we know of. I’m honestly surprised another Immortal hasn’t shown up yet,” Waverly counts off on her fingers in a hushed voice.

 

“What are we going to do about Nicole, Wy? She’s a target now. I let this Mercenary get away so he’d bring the message back to Clutie, but he’ll tell her about Nicole. On second thought I should have shot him.” She sighs deeply. “I would have had an excuse.” 

 

Wynonna presses her lips tightly together. If she’s not telling Waverly that Nicole is Immortal, she certainly can’t talk to her about how the warning buzz she relies on feels...different somehow. She’s sure it’s not just Nicole she’s feeling, but is it Clutie?  _ No _ , Wynonna reasons,  _ I need to know before I worry her with this.  _

 

“Before this happened I would have said Nicole can take care of herself, sis. But what happened out there? Maybe she was distracted. What were you guys doing?” Wynonna asks accusingly and Waverly bites back right away. 

 

Waverly stands abruptly, slamming her mug down on the table and begins to pace. “First of all, Wynonna,” she hisses loudly,  “why do you  _ assume  _ that Nicole can take care of herself?...You already know that  _ I can _ ….and I’m not sure what you’re implying about Nicole being distracted but I don’t like it.  _ We _ weren’t doing anything  _ together _ at all! I had just left Shorty’s when he came at me, and she came along when I was about to take care of it. I just think...you need to talk to her about this town a little, prepare her, y’know?”

 

Wynonna raises her hands in surrender.  “Whoa, babygirl, where’s all this fire coming from? Everything turned out fine tonight. I’ll deal with Nicole.” She rests her hands on Waverly’s shoulder, pausing her in the middle of a tiny kitchen lap and leaning in to look her in the eyes. “Just be careful, Waves...and I don’t just mean with Mercenaries.”

 

In the living room, Nicole’s overheard enough. She thinks about Waverly, out on the street with no fear in her eyes, yelling at Nicole for interceding, the blazing anger somehow making her even more beautiful. She unlocks the part of her memories that she’s trying to forget, and allows herself to reminisce about Aileen, who needed her, and Shae, who wanted her.  _ Waverly doesn’t need or want me _ , she tells herself,  _ and it’s for the best. The end result will always be the same. If I try to be a part of her life, she will end up hurt. _

  
  


**Juan Carlo’s Church, Purgatory: 2018**

 

Father Juan Carlo feels her presence before she walks through the tall wooden doors of his sanctuary. Five hundred or so years since he’d waded ashore on the coast of Florida, Priest to the explorer Ponce de Leon, and his eventual migration West where, he’d shamefully admit, he’d participated in the murder and enslavement of many native peoples. Juan Carlo had found God many times over the years, especially as he realized that his own Immortality was not a gift from God, but a trial that he must suffer in order to eventually be welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven. 

 

After years of roving, the first Immortal found Juan Carlo. They fought, and an overwhelmed Juan Carlo retreated back to his church and over the threshold, only for the Immortal to stand then, first yelling challenges and finally insults. Rage overtook Juan Carlo and he stepped back out into the fight, a swift stroke of his sword taking the head of the other. 

 

When the blue lightning came, Juan Carlo knew it was another test from God. His opponent would not fight him in God’s house. Nothing could feel so good and be meant for a man such as himself. No, Juan Carlo must have killed an Angel, he determined, adding greed and temptation to the weight of his sins. Truly, his challenger had told him “There can be only one,” and now he knew in his heart that the “one” meant God. 

 

Repulsed and horrified by the blood on his hands, he’d repented, sequestering himself in town after town as their preacher, always staying on hallowed ground, spreading the word of the Lord. He’d thrown his sword into a nearby bay, wanting never again to suffer the temptation to take another life. In this way, like an undiscovered indigenous population, he’d also never had a First Teacher, never recognized the buzz of another Immortal nearby, never thought on anything but the balance of sin darkening his soul. 

 

Settling in the Ghost River Triangle was, therefore, an unconscious decision. He’d felt the pull towards the place, and determined to go where God wanted him, he followed. When he found the empty, abandoned church just outside of a town called Purgatory, he’d seen it as a sign and set about to rehabilitate the old building and let the Lord’s light shine in there once again. If and when God called for him, Juan Carlo was ready to go. Until that time, he understood, it was for him to prove to God that his soul was cleansed of the filthy stain of murder. 

 

Now Father Juan Carlo rocks on his knees on the hard plank floor, ignoring the ache in his joints and the cold seeping up his legs from between the boards. “ Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from mine sin,” he pleads, squeezing his eyes tightly shut,  “For I know mine iniquities and my sin is ever before me.” He can almost feel God’s presence now, a hard buzz vibrating through his bent shoulders. 

 

“Psalm 51,” comes a sweet voice from behind him, “a lovely choice, Father. The Lord wishes only to forgive those who sin against him, does he not?”

 

Forming the sign of the cross, Juan Carlo opens his eyes to see the woman who has quietly entered his church while he was engrossed in his communion. She’s striking and blond with ethereal features, dressed in a crisp white blouse with contrasting black piping along the collar and placket. Slim black trousers descend into four inch stiletto heels, and Juan Carlo wonders how she walks in the snow with those shoes. A black coat hangs neatly over her arm. Father Juan Carlo stays on his knees before his Lord. “Welcome, sister,” he offers quietly, “What brings you to my sanctuary? Do you wish to join me in prayer?”

 

He can hear her heels echoing as she paces the Church, a gentle laugh rolling from her lips. “Oh Father, no, thank you,” she replies, “I’m on a journey of sorts, you might say, and I can’t stay long. I’m hoping you can help me…”

 

“We’re all on a journey, sister,” Juan Carlo says piously, oblivious to the flash of rage that colors his guest’s face at the interruption. 

 

“Yes, well, Father,” she continues, “I’m looking for someone.” Juan Carlo opens his mouth to speak and she adds, a little more firmly, “NOT the Lord, Juan Carlo.” 

 

Now Juan Carlo sits back on his heels and really looks at the woman. The Lord is all around him, buzzing and warning, and he’s finding it hard to concentrate; something is definitely wrong here and he’s casting around in his mind for his own latest transgression, even as he stutters out, “Who? Who are you looking for Miss….?”

 

“Clutie,” she grits through bared teeth. “Mansplaining ought to be a sin before the Lord, Father.” 

 

And Juan Carlo is shocked into silence, because rage is radiating off of this woman, and now he’s afraid. He’s cast back through the shadowy years to the man on his threshold, the man whose head he took, the man who told him there could be only one, and he thinks now, finally the reckoning has come. “Who are you seeking?” he manages, cowering now on his knees, his palms together in supplication, prayers running together in his mind, a disjointed cacophony. 

 

Clutie squats easily in front of Juan Carlo and strokes a freezing cold fingertip down his temple; wiping away a bead of sweat. She sucks her finger into her mouth and rounds her tongue around the tip. Juan Carlo is ashamed to find his eyes lingering on her blood red lips as she draws the finger back out, shiny and wet. 

 

“Where’s Wynonna Earp?” she whispers. “Is she here? Is she alone?”

 

I’m going to die anyhow, Juan Carlo thinks, let me die with the knowledge of what I have done. “Who is Wynonna Earp?” he asks in what he hopes is a convincingly disinterested voice, but his bravery is for nought, as he watches the woman draw a crystalline blue dagger from underneath her neatly folded blazer. The ice running through his veins corresponds immediately to the icy appearance of the blade, and he knows it’s for him. 

 

“She’s here then,” Clutie replies with a feral grin, teasing the blade along his jawline. “I asked you, is she alone?”

 

“This….this is God’s house,” Juan Carlo manages, struck suddenly with the understanding of what this woman is, what everything in his life has been and meant. “But...you can’t be. You’re...not an angel.” 

 

Clutie throws her head back in sudden laughter, and Juan Carlo swears he sees a canine tooth peeking sharply out, and now his head is filled with a twisted roaring mantra of, “Forgive me Father for I have sinned, all the better to eat you with, forgive me Father for I have sinned, all the better to eat you with,” as a hot trickle runs down his thigh to pool at his knee. 

 

Clutie rears back, disgusted, tangling her free hand in the back of Juan Carlo’s hair and pulling his head back. “Gods, can you not even die without shaming yourself? The power is wasted on you, Father,” she mocks, “but fear not, I will put it to good use. Now I ask you once more: is she alone?” 

 

“What do you want her for?” he asks. He knows Wynonna Earp and she’s always left him alone,  not a God-fearing woman, he knows that, but there’s salvation for any who seek it. Juan Carlo hisses with pain as Clutie yanks his head roughly. “She lives with her sister, but that one IS an angel. You’ll never touch  _ her _ ,” Juan Carlo promises, feeling suddenly that something is right in the world after all, and Clutie hisses, squinting as a sudden bolt of pain shoots through her head.  But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, and she looks down on the placid face of Juan Carlo, eyes closed as he basks in the warm balm of the Lord’s forgiveness, sudden clarity in his mind as the words flow through him, “For thou desirest no sacrifice, though I would give it,” almost not feeling the blade as it slides through his mortal cage, finally free. 

  
  
  


************

 

Police work is pretty much the same from one rural region to the next, Nicole reflects, as she rides through the frozen town with Nedley, out on patrol. It’s a few weeks into her stay in Purgatory and she’s finally stopped trying to get into the driver’s side of the patrol car, and cringing about driving on the wrong side of the road. The work is frankly a little boring, and she finds herself wondering if she’d anticipated the Gathering too soon, anxiety not allowing her to relax enough to at least take advantage of the large amounts of free time she’s found herself with. 

 

She’d made an effort to take on her assignments with enthusiasm, learning the local police codes and reading through the small legal handbook Nedley’d gifted her...and steering clear of the Black Badge office. Any interactions she’d had with Waverly, passing in the hallways or during coffee breaks were congenial, and she hoped Waverly could see her for what she was: professional yet caring, but nothing more.

 

Now, Nedley cruises down Main Street, past brick storefronts and Shorty’s bar, the coffee shop where they sometimes stop for cappuccinos, the small library. He rounds the corner onto the block with the bookstore, and Nicole’s rewarded with what she’d never admit to have been hoping for all week: a glimpse of Waverly Earp. Through the plate glass window, Nicole can see that Waverly’s wearing a chunky white turtleneck sweater and tight blue jeans, and her honey brown hair is up in a messy bun. Waverly’s sitting on the arm of a blanket-draped loveseat, thumbing through some thick tome. Before the squad car passes the full length of the storefront, Nicole’s committed Waverly’s blissed-out expression to memory. 

 

Suddenly, she feels it, that hard buzzing that causes all her senses to fully engage. An Immortal is near... right  _ there _ somewhere. She sits up fully in her seat and looks around, scanning the faces of every pedestrian on the sidewalks, but no one catches her attention. There’s just a single slow moving vehicle, an ostentatious pink sedan now waiting at the stop sign. 

 

“ _ Waverly _ ,” she mutters under her breath, and Nedley turns to look at her. 

 

“What, Nicole?” 

 

Just then the police radio in the cruiser crackles to life. “Sheriff, there’s a 10-84 at the old church on Crossroads.” Nedley picks up the mic to reply, but turns to Nicole first. “Do you remember what that one is, Haught?”

 

“B and E,” she answers quickly, still looking around for the Immortal she knows is near, and Nedley smiles, not noticing her agitated state. “It’s a shame we have to give you back.” He keys the mic. “Copy that, we’ll be enroute.”

 

On the way to the church Nedley briefs Nicole. “The church is pretty old, been here for at least 180 years….not as old as some-a-them old Scottish ruins, mind, but anyhow. Juan Carlo’s been the preacher here for a long time…” but he cuts himself short with a sideways look to Nicole.

 

He pulls up near the front of the church and Nicole steps quickly out of the car. She’s not allowed to carry a gun here, but it comforts her to have her hardwood baton close. The intensity of the  _ warning _ hasn’t changed; this Immortal must be a powerful one, and she wonders who it is. But for now, Nedley is standing by at the door of the church waiting for her. She notices that the door is ajar, in spite of how cold it is outside. The Sheriff listens at the crack for a moment as Nicole looks all along the side of the church for evidence of any kind, footprints or broken windows, or blood, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. Then Nedley slowly opens the door of the church and steps inside.

 

Nicole’s close enough on his heels that she almost runs into him, frozen at the sight of a headless body in a black cassock, splayed like some kind of obscene starfish in the middle of the church.  Blood has flowed from his neck and Nicole can see the back of the head, gray hair matted darkly to the skull, wedged under a pew. The scene is so  _ wrong _ that she shivers, despite the thick Purgatory Police sweater she’s borrowed along with a bulletproof vest, to wear over her long underwear. Scorch marks mar the wide plank flooring and the modest crucifix-adorned podium at the front of the nave is split down the middle. Nicole immediately knows exactly what transpired here and her blood runs cold at the realization. 

 

“What in the hell…” Nedley coughs out, then turns to Nicole and, seeing the shock visible on her face, he steers her outside by her forearms. “This ain’t no B and E, Nicole, this is a crime scene. Are you OK?” 

 

Nicole has to appreciate how considerate he is, this small town Sheriff who’s seen more than his fair share of suspicious deaths considering the remoteness and size of his locale, taking the time to worry about this fresh new officer from a foreign country where maybe folks don’t  _ murder _ other folks, especially by decapitation. She’s walking the line of not trying to appear too nonchalant about this death, but Nicole is also a cop, so a homicide shouldn’t distress her too much...and of course she can’t let on to the real reason for her obvious distress.  “I’m just fine, Sheriff, thank you,” she says finally. “I didn’t get a great look in there but I don’t suppose it’s some sort of...animal attack? It’s just so...brutal,” she adds, tugging her sleeves down over her wrists and rubbing her gloved hands together. 

 

“Definitely not,” Nedley answers, and grabs his cell phone from his coat pocket. He dials from memory and gazes up into the snowy trees. “Earp! Sheriff Nedley. There’s been another one. Yeah, but this one is Father Juan Carlo.”

 

Nicole can hear Wynonna’s voice raised through the phone in their back and forth, as the Sheriff crunches through the snow back to the squad car. He retrieves a roll of yellow tape from the trunk and tosses it to Nicole, gesturing to her to start taping off the scene. 

 

“Yeah, inside the church,” he’s saying, “That’s what I said. How long till you get here?”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy surprise bonus chapter. 
> 
> To be honest, Chapter 7 felt short to me, so here is Chapter 8 a little early. You'll still get Chapter 9 on Tuesday. 
> 
> Thanks to my reluctant beta @comelayinmybed for getting this edited in time for my rash decision to post it early. 
> 
> Come chat me up on Twitter @LuckyWantsTo


	9. Chapter 9

**Purgatory 2018**

 

It’s just after midnight by the time Nicole’s finished writing her supplemental report for the investigation of Juan Carlo’s homicide. She’d written it, and then re-written it after a read through.  _ Try to imagine how far fetched this all sounds _ , she thought to herself,  _ maybe not so much in a place where supernatural-ish shit seems to happen with unusual regularity, _ she mused,  _ but definitely back at HQ. _ A condition of Nicole’s exchange assignment was that she would complete a report for any case she became involved in, and Nedley had also asked her to write a witness statement, so she’d whittled away at both without stopping for a break, and now sits tiredly at her worn loaner desk with her head in her hands, thoughts swirling. 

 

The Gathering is imminent, she can feel it in her bones, vibrating through her nerves. It makes her relieved and anxious all at once; closure is coming and the cost is non-negotiable. Clutie has broken the rules again and this death is a message to any Immortal that she will do whatever it takes to be the One. Nicole knows that it is up to her to decide how to resolve her part of the Game, and she frowns, thinking of how much easier that choice would have been had she never met Wynonna, and then--Waverly. 

 

_ Typical, _she thinks, _ I’m so weak. Lonely _ . 

 

Nicole sighs deeply then grinds the base of her palms into her tired eyes and stretches her hands above her head, spine cracking and popping. 

 

Waverly’s just passed the doorway to the bullpen when she catches the flash of movement from the corner and leans back in the doorframe to see who’s here. Seeing Nicole mid-stretch, she freezes, a multitude of unfamiliar emotions cascading through her simultaneously. 

 

Waverly can’t say she hasn’t been thinking about Nicole...a lot. She’s so very tempted by the promise of new knowledge that the officer brings, merely by the fact of her provenance. The underlying air of mystery that Nicole carries is like an intoxicating scent on the breeze that Waverly longs to follow, to decipher. Plus, Waverly has eyes, and Nicole is gorgeous.

 

In the few weeks that Nicole has been in Purgatory, they’ve been cordial with each other. Nicole is polite and professional with Waverly, and familiar, yet oddly guarded with Wynonna. Waverly can sense that Nicole feels like she’s missing out on something, and she’s decided that it has to do with the research that Waverly and Wynonna do together, but therein lies the cause of Waverly’s distant attitude towards her.  _ Frankly _ , Waverly thinks,  _ this whole arrangement sucks.  _

 

But tonight, Waverly looks through that doorway and sees only a very tired woman, sadness emanating from her person,  _ who still manages to look super hot _ , she thinks, greedily drinking in the slice of abdomen revealed by Nicole’s stretch. 

 

Nicole spots Waverly before Waverly can think up a coherent greeting. She smiles at her with her usual gentle quirk of the lips, like she’s always happy to see Waverly, and a lightness comes into her eyes that wasn’t there before. 

 

“Waverly, hey,” she greets. “It’s late, is everything alright? Is Wynonna here?” 

 

Waverly’s been focused her entire life and she hasn’t always understood why. At an extremely early age she felt an almost otherworldly motivation to learn and know everything, and gained a deep satisfaction from creating and maintaining order in her world. Once she’d solved the mystery of Wynonna, she’d known immediately that it was her calling to understand Immortality and the Game, and to be by Wynonna’s side so that she could win. Besides her lifelong friend Chrissy, who is frankly just extremely kind-hearted, other children found Waverly weird and different, and avoided her and her volatile sister. And this was fine. She’d pushed her way through school and then college with a single-minded ferocity. And as for romantic interests? Waverly had dated, a little, and she’d been intimate with a few people, but those things got in the way of her true purpose, she’d decided. Too messy. 

 

Now she stands in the doorway, really seeing Nicole and hearing the tone of her question, soft and protective and interested, with no underlying ulterior motive to be discerned, the burr rolling through. Waverly feels something happen in her body, an indescribable warm feeling in her chest, and it’s terrifying but irresistible. 

 

“I work for a shady pseudo-government agency investigating unusual phenomena with no closing hours. What’s your excuse?” Waverly answers.

 

Waverly’s adorable and earnest in a tan skirt and deep emerald green top, her lovely hair loose around her shoulders, and Nicole’s smile deepens, those trademark dimples appearing. “Time zones,” she laments. “I’m supposed to write a report to my headquarters every time I’m involved in any enforcement activity or case work. Since my boss clocks in within the hour over there I figured I would get Nedley’s witness statement done too, then send my report over. It’s not like I have an exciting social life to miss out on,” she adds, ruefully. Leaning towards her computer she clicks a button with a dramatic flourish. “Aaaand, sent.”

 

Waverly’s resolve teeters for a moment.  _ This is a bad idea _ , she thinks to herself, then ignores logic and plunges onward as if shoved from behind by her heart. She almost looks surprised at herself when she makes the offer. “I happen to have a bottle of really good whiskey in my office,” she tempts, “since you’re done for the night, would you like to have a drink? You can tell me about your similar cases back home...for research,” she blurts, and looking for something to do with her arms, she wraps them around herself, hands tucked into her armpits. 

 

“Waverly,” Nicole lilts, “that sounds like just what I need.” She unfolds from behind the desk and Waverly is reminded of the impressive length of her, another thing she’s been trying to avoid paying attention to, due to that weird feeling she gets every time she notices. But just like every time she sees Nicole, the thought arises unbidden like an annoying pop-up on her computer screen:  _ I bet I could fit right under her chin if we stood close enough _ . 

 

Waverly lets out an annoyed huff at the image, and at her completely befuddling loss of self control, and Nicole stops short. “Oh...if it’s not a good time then, maybe another…”

 

“No, please! I’m sorry, I...just...come on then,” and Waverly spins abruptly on her heel and out of the doorway. 

 

Nicole can only trail behind, mildly amused, because she knows what she saw that time. _There’s an advantage to living this long_ , she thinks, not for the first time, _if only that it’s a lot easier to read people_. But as she traverses the hallway to the Black Badge offices she’s seized once again by a heavy sadness because this can’t be. _We can only be friends_ , she reminds herself firmly, _just_ _friends_. 

 

Reaching into her desk drawer, Waverly digs into the depths and fumbles with a bottle, her hands shaking in a way that annoy her. She’d saved this for a special occasion, hidden it under a stack of books she knew would repel Wynonna. It was a gift from another researcher with whom she’d collaborated online to solve a homicide, and a lovely surprise. Waverly always assumed she’d find a special occasion to open it, and someone special to share it with, as opposed to allowing Wynonna to consume it without even tasting in one go. 

 

Now she finds herself pulling the cork with a pop, in her office during cold, dim after-hours, with Nicole in her worn Academy sweatshirt, fatigue evident in the dark circles under her eyes. She  stands awkwardly just inside the doorway before moving gracefully to the table. Nicole picks up her glass and eyes the bottle, noticing the label, and Waverly knows this was the perfect time to open it. 

 

“Glenmorangie Eighteen? This is a lovely surprise...but pretty expensive, Waves.” She rolls the whiskey around in her glass, humming happily as she sniffs it. “Hmmm, nutmeg...oak…”

 

Waverly watches transfixed as Nicole’s eyelids lower, her nostrils brushing the rim of the glass, the nickname so casually used echoing in Waverly’s ears, before she notices that Nicole is looking at her expectantly, glass outstretched. “Shall we toast then?” Nicole asks, the tiniest smirk evident. “To friends,” Nicole offers simply, clinking her glass against Waverly’s, but the intensity in her eyes says otherwise. Her gaze never leaves Waverly as she tips the glass to her lips, the liquid warm and smooth as it rolls over her tongue, the lingering notes of peaches and cream bringing flashes of the Highland to her. Waverly’s lips are soft on her own glass, and Nicole’s eyes follow the scotch as she tastes it. 

 

_ I’m jealous of an inanimate object _ , Nicole thinks. It’s like climbing, she knows. The fall won’t hurt her, but her inevitable death will kill Waverly. But as she considers Waverly over the rim of her glass, she thinks about Wynonna, and how this is different. Waverly knows about the Game, she knows what’s coming. Death and fear aren’t new concepts to Waverly.  _ Maybe if I can be honest with her, _ she thinks with something like hope blooming in her heart for the first time in years,  _ maybe this is something we can have _ . 

 

Waverly’s eyes trace over Nicole’s face, her perfect eyebrows and softly curved nose, the openness in her wide brown eyes, pale scars scattered over even paler skin.  _  I don’t want to be just friends _ , Waverly decides, warmth spreading through her body.  Waverly’s mind logically informs her that the sudden warmth in her limbs is due to vasodilation from the alcohol shunting her body heat to her extremities.  _ No _ , she thinks.  _ It’s Nicole who makes me warm. _

 

************

 

There’s a charged air in the room as they sip their drinks in companionable silence before Nicole thinks she’d better break the spell. She looks around her curiously. “What’s all this?” she asks, standing in front of an enormous open board covered with maps, pinned-up photos, sketches and notes, some of them graphic and disturbing. Waverly bounds to her feet to stand in front of the board. 

 

“Umm, ok, Nicole. One thing. I think I owe you an apology. It wasn’t fair of me to shut you out like that when you first got here. That scene today? I know you’re a cop but it was obviously hard for you to see all that. I knew right away when I saw you at your desk tonight. So before you look at all this, you need to think about how deeply you really want to be involved.”  

 

Even as she speaks with detached conviction, Waverly’s engaged in an internal conflict of her own. _ I want you for myself Nicole; shouldn’t I have something that is just mine? _ Waverly reasons, her darting eyes absorbing Nicole’s long neck and defined collarbones, peeking over the frayed collar of the sweatshirt. She nervously pulls a ring on and off of her thumb, waiting for Nicole’s response. 

 

And Nicole realizes that Waverly misunderstood her posture and reflective demeanor to be the result of her exposure to a brutal homicide. She reminds herself that Waverly doesn’t know about her Immortality, and another layer of her personality is revealed to Nicole.  _ God, she’s kind _ , she thinks.  _ How is it possible that knowing that she could lose everything only makes her more...empathetic?  _ But there’s a vulnerability and a longing in Waverly’s eyes that Nicole can see plain as day. The difference here is that instead of hardening her heart to the possibility of something between them, like she’s done for so many years, this time she can feel it thawing in her chest. 

 

Nicole comes to an abrupt realization. _This is what Wynonna felt when she found Waverly,_ she thinks, _the sister that was the missing piece in her life. What piece is she meant to fill in mine?_ _And I, in hers?_

 

“It would be fair to say that I am all in, Waverly,” Nicole replies honestly, but then because she thinks that might be just the slightest bit too honest, she dips her shoulders and hastily adds,  “I mean, my superiors expect me to try to find some...links between crime here and there. So it’s probably best for me to be as in the loop as possible?” 

 

Waverly looks relieved and almost excited as she steps back from the board with a proud gesture. “This is all of my research over the past couple of years compiled into an easy-to-follow murder board.” She grimaces briefly at her glib use of the terminology, but Nicole doesn’t flinch. “I have identified twenty-seven victims that fit the suspect’s M.O. since...the early 1900’s. Before that the records are just too spotty.”

 

“As Wynonna explained, Black Badge charges us with investigations related to what some might believe to be unusual or supernatural phenomena. Wynonna and I are specifically working to identify a suspect responsible for a number of homicides with a similar M.O. that have occurred with increasing frequency in the Ghost River Triangle over the past few years.  All of the victims were decapitated. In some crime scenes the area surrounding the murders was scorched, as if exposed to a heat source, although no ignition sources were detected. In other cases there’s evidence that an animal took part in mauling the victim.” 

 

Waverly looks at Nicole then, her tongue between her teeth, and nervously considers whether she should just stop here. Is it too much? She wants to get to know the woman, not scare her off. On the other hand, doesn’t Nicole deserve to know what they’re working on? Isn’t the idea mutual collaboration? After all, she reasons, Nicole knows that Black Badge investigates the paranormal.

 

One look at Nicole’s face, open and inquisitive, quells Waverly’s nerves. Nicole nods at her to continue. “The murders initially took place at random locations all over the world, but within the past thirty years or so,” and here Waverly places her palms together and makes an arrow-like motion towards the triangular region outlined in red on her map,  “they’ve followed a more distinct pattern straight towards us.” 

 

Even though Nicole knows exactly what Waverly means when she says this, she leans in to peer closely at the photos. There are so many of them; she’s impressed by Waverly’s research. A long timeline stretches across the top of the board, going back almost one hundred years, with lines connecting victims to known date of death. 

 

She reaches up a finger to touch a face in one of the photos and asks, “What about this one?”

 

“1992, Tombstone, Arizona, just outside the O.K. Corral Historic Complex. No identification found on him, prints not on file in any system.” 

 

Nicole knows that the sepia-toned, old-timey snapshot of Doc was made in Tombstone. Her heart drops as she looks at the brutal crime scene photo. Doc’s body is surrounded by yellow tape, blood staining his sharp paisley shirt and light vest, his familiar pearl handled knife held limply in his outstretched palm. 

 

Nicole takes a last lingering look at Doc; even knowing that his death was inevitable doesn’t make it any easier. She remembers his dry humor and stilted speech, recalls sparring with him and pinning him to the ground, asking him if it were just the two of them left, could he take her head? Doc had only laughed in that calm way he had, then shifted quick as a whip and disarmed her, before offering a chivalrous hand up. 

 

“The O.K. Corral where Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday had their famous gunfight?” Nicole asks. “Any connection with the Ghost River Earps,” she asks with playful intent, wondering how much Waverly is really going to tell her tonight. 

 

Waverly looks speculatively at Nicole, before evidently reaching a decision. “Wynonna is the great-great-granddaughter of Wyatt Earp’s companion Sadie. I’m uh...actually adopted.”

 

Waverly moves closer to Nicole, placing a gentle hand on her forearm. “Nicole, listen, things around Black Badge can get a little...nutty? Sometimes you have to just believe what the evidence points to.” 

 

Nicole looks down at Waverly’s hand, wrapped around her arm, and back up into Waverly’s earnest hazel eyes. They stare at each other for a moment before Waverly laughs nervously, pulling her hand back and moving to the table. She pours them each a second glass of scotch and hands Nicole hers. 

 

“Of course, Waverly,” Nicole agrees easily, “I’m a cop, I always look to the evidence.” 

 

Waverly flits nervously to a stack of documents she’s piled on her desktop. “Well tonight I planned to add Father Juan Carlo to the board. As far as I can tell thus far, his death is different because it happened in the church. My hypothesis was that the rules didn’t allow…,” she trails off, hyper aware of her slip. If Nicole notices, however, she says nothing, and Waverly forges on. “The suspect always seemed to avoid killing on hallowed ground of any sort...you know what I mean by that? On several occasions it is obvious that the suspect and victim made contact on hallowed ground but the victim was safe until leaving that area. I’m still looking for other similar instances.”

 

“How is this possible, over such a long period of time?” Nicole asks, hopeful she sounds convincing, because that’s what a person coming into this cold would ask. “Is it a copycat killer or something?” 

 

“Something like that,” Waverly says shortly, then fiddles aimlessly with her notes, her body language screaming out her omission. 

 

_ Ok that’s enough _ , Nicole thinks.  _ She’s let me in _ .

 

“Hey Waves,” Nicole says lightly, her brogue ever so slightly loosened by the liquor and the attractive company “I’m starvin’. Would you wanna grab a bite?”

 

************

 

Nicole drops a pizza box on the coffee table in the modest apartment that was provided for her use by the PSD. She deposits her ever-present backpack on the floor, the wood baton within easy reach. The space is sparsely furnished with bedroom set, coffee table and tiny loveseat that’s caused her nothing but grief; her legs hang well over the end when she tries to lie down on it. “I should have known nothing but take-out would be open after midnight in Purgatory,” she jokes, bringing a couple of plates in from the kitchenette. 

 

“Who doesn’t love pizza?” Waverly asks, kicking her shoes off by the door and eagerly grabbing a slice from the box. She plops down on Nicole’s loveseat with a leg folded under her. 

 

“Who orders pizza without cheese?” NIcole retorts, settling onto the cushion next to Waverly and eyeing her own slice suspiciously, but her first bite has her moaning in delight as Waverly’s eyes crinkle mirthfully. 

 

“It’s good right?” Waverly asks. “Yeah Rosie’s like a freaking pizza scientist. She’s figured out the perfect proportion of garlic to olive oil.”

 

Nicole shrugs through an enormous mouthful of pizza, smiling embarrassedly with her hand over her mouth. “Mmm mmm,” she chews and swallows with a satisfied heavy sigh. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought to be eating vegan pizza and liking it.” 

 

Waverly slaps playfully at her knee and deliberately leaves her hand to linger there. It’s not as easy to eat, but once Waverly’s made up her mind about something…

 

“Even non-vegans love this pizza, but thanks for making the sacrifice for me, Nicole.”

 

Nicole’s hyper-aware of Waverly’s hand on her knee, her heart rate has picked up and the pizza suddenly sticks in her mouth. She slowly finishes her bite, leaving the moment to last a little longer, then catches Waverly’s eye with her own. 

 

“It’s my pleasure, Waves,” she says sincerely, holding out her slice of pizza, “cheers?”

 

Waverly laughs cutely, and taps her slice against Nicole’s, and Nicole suddenly remembers her manners. “Ah, Waverly, can I offer you a drink with your pizza?” She pushes her long frame up from the couch, and Waverly can feel the heat still pooled in her palm from Nicole’s leg. She watches Nicole standing by the fridge, still eating her pizza, her red hair wavy around her face, then chokes on her next bite as Nicole leans over to peer into the deeper recesses, offering her a fine view of Nicole’s ass in snug, worn jeans. 

 

Waverly coughs harshly, dislodging the bite, and Nicole turns quickly back to her with a concerned expression.

 

_ Jesus, Waverly _ , she admonishes herself,  _ get a grip. It’s like you’ve never seen a nice ass before. You are a hot gay mess. _

 

“I’m fine, fine, I’m fine...just down the wrong pipe is all.” Waverly pats her chest a few times. “What did you have in there for drinks?” 

 

Nicole eyes her with the beginnings of a smirk dancing on her lips. “I have sparkling water, beer, wine, milk and protein shakes. And of course I have whiskey.” 

 

“A beer sounds great Nicole, thanks.”

 

Pizza consumed, Nicole sits back with a satisfied sigh and rubs her hand over her stomach. She takes a large sip of her beer and closes her eyes, enjoying the feel of the cool beverage in her mouth, the taste intermingling with the residual tomato and garlic flavor. It’s almost two in the morning now but she’s not tired; there’s the familiar excitement of  _ something new _ humming under her skin. She opens her eyes to find Waverly staring at her with a soft smile on her lips. Nicole smiles back, and this time, it’s she who places a hand on Waverly’s leg, which is now bumped right up against her. 

 

“You were starving, huh?” Waverly teases, covering Nicole’s hand with her own. “Do you feed yourself with regularity? You know, the human body requires caloric intake in the form of things other than coffee and whiskey, in order to survive.” Waverly takes this opportunity to readjust herself sideways on the couch with her back resting against the arm. She may know a lot about the human body’s physiological needs, but her real expertise is languages, and Nicole’s body language right now is telling her that she ought to stretch her legs out over Nicole’s lap, so she does. 

 

“Not to sound patronizing, because I really mean this,” Nicole tells her, feeling bold, “but it’s cute when you science at me.” Nicole adjusts herself to allow Waverly to rest comfortably, and begins to stroke her thumb absently over the top of Waverly’s foot, “Jesus, Waverly, your feet are freezing,” she laughs. 

 

“I’m always cold,” Waverly admits, leaning forward and resting the back of her hand against Nicole’s neck. “See? Shall I tell you about blood flow and extremities?” 

 

Nicole hisses and jerks away with a laugh, then pulls a blanket up from where she’s stored it in a basket next to the loveseat. She wraps it over her own lap and Waverly’s legs, and Waverly tugs it up over her chest. They both sigh happily and Nicole looks sideways, admiring Waverly, just as Waverly opens her mouth to speak. 

 

“Tell me about home, Nicole.” 

 

_ Honesty is the best foundation for a relationship _ , Nicole thinks.  _ But what am I going to tell her? I can’t ask her to tell me about Wynonna, not without talking to Wynonna first. I never told Wynonna that I wouldn’t tell her. What am I hoping to gain here?  _

 

Waverly’s voice, gentle and curious, breaks through her thoughts, “Nic? Are you alright? Where’d you go?”  And as she looks at Waverly, she’s positive,  **home** is what she is hoping to gain.  _ I think _ , she tells herself,  _ I finally found something worth dying for _ . 

 

“It’s been so long since I was home, Waverly,” she says truthfully, reaching for Waverly’s hand, “and it’s changed so much over the years. The Highlands were the most beautiful place on Earth, I swear it. So much green, like emeralds, and wide open spaces. Soaring hills and so many things to climb!” Nicole laughs at the memory. “I love to climb, Waves.” 

 

“That explains the scars,” Waverly says, running her fingers lightly up the one on Nicole’s forearm. She leans in to look at it closely. “Did you get stitches here or...how was this healed? 

 

“The uh…,”

 

_ Honesty _ , Nicole, she tells herself firmly. 

 

“...the healer used a gut suture. My father was so angry with me!” 

 

Waverly considers this information, frowning. “I thought gut suture was banned? I suppose perhaps at a rural hospital,” she muses, her brain enthusiastically sorting and filing the new information. 

 

“There were so many times I should have died,” Nicole continues to reminisce. “At five years old I fell almost two fa’, climbin’ my own house.”

 

_ Did she say two fa’? _ , thinks Waverly, asking, “Two  _ falls _ , Nicole? As in thirty six feet, approximately? Utilizing the ancient Scottish unit of measurement?” 

 

“Yes that’s right,” Nicole confirms simply. “Scotland is lovely, I used to think there was no other place that could be home for me, but I was drawn here. I thought I knew the reason but-- maybe I was wrong.”

 

And now Waverly’s reached a conclusion. If she’s honest with herself she always had a theory that Nicole was different, she was hiding a secret. It was weird for Wynonna to befriend another person, let alone let her defenses down around Nicole. Then there’s the sadness that they both emanate when they spend time together, like they both know their pleasure has an expiration date written in stone; that Nicole doesn’t belong entirely in this time. Her eyes have seen too much for any twenty-seven year old. And the ever-present baton...

 

“Waverly,” Nicole says, gripping her hand tightly, almost stuttering with nervousness. “I have to tell you something, and it’s going to make Wynonna pretty mad at me. But I feel like I have to be honest with you because I...I really like you. This is something I haven’t told anyone for...for a long time.”

 

Now Nicole is looking at her with a mixture of panic and pleading in her eyes. Waverly squeezes her hand back soothingly. “I think I might already know, Nicole,” she says. 

 

“My name is Nicole Haught. I was born in 1531 in the Scottish Highlands. I cannot die.” 

 

____________________________________________________________________________

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @comelayinmybed for beta duties in addition to her Peanuts style therapy sessions. 
> 
> Posting on mobile so if it looks weird blame mobile. Actually if any part of this is weird or makes no sense, blame mobile.
> 
> I’m on Twitter @LuckyWantsTo


	10. Chapter 10

“Waverly,” Nicole pleads. “Waverly! Say something!” But Waverly’s laughing too hard to get words out. She pulls her legs off of Nicole’s lap and drops her feet on the floor, then leans over her knees and takes a couple of deep breaths. 

 

Nicole’s panicking now; does Waverly not believe her? Should she say it’s a joke and pretend none of this ever happened?  _ Yes, that’s probably best _ , she thinks, opening her mouth with an off-the-cuff explanation ready.

 

“Nicole...Nic...I’m so sorry. You just sounded so serious!” Waverly tips her head back and closes her eyes, wiping away a tear. She looks solemnly at Nicole, repeating her words back to her:  “My name is Nicole Haught. I cannot die,” then bursts into laughter again. 

 

“Waverly,” admonishes Nicole, “that is the worst Scottish accent I have ever heard.”

 

They stare at each other for a moment, then Waverly giggles and Nicole can’t help but grin back.

 

“Nicole, listen. I heard you and I’m so glad you felt comfortable enough to tell me. But in a way, I already knew. It’s not a new concept to me you know; I figured out Wynonna was Immortal when I was eight.”

 

“Wait...you, what?” Nicole scrubs at the back of her neck, then shakes her head. “But Waverly,” Nicole persists, “then of course you know what this means? Wynonna and I are both Immortal...the Game says there can be only one winner. Only **one** , Waverly.”

 

Waverly looks serious for a moment, then suddenly her face takes on a beautiful intensity that Nicole’s seen before. At work, Nicole’s doesn’t  _ spy _ on Waverly or anything...if anything she’s just noticed her around the station... _ a lot _ .  Typically when she’s either deep into her research or engaged in sharing it, Waverly’s entire self just brightens.  Her frank intelligence and excitement is so damned engaging that Nicole’s felt pulled into her orbit even as she’s tried to avoid the attraction. 

 

Waverly reaches for Nicole and pulls her closer, interlacing their fingers together. “Nic, we still have time,” she says. “I’m... _ we’re _ going to figure this out. There must be a way; every game has a weakness. Until we get to the point where we’ve tried everything to beat the Game, I refuse to believe that the rules are set in stone.” 

 

She laughs to herself then, breaking away from Nicole and starting to pace circles around the apartment. “Actually, I wonder if the rules  _ are _ set in  _ actual _ stone somewhere. The Game’s been around for millenia!” Waverly waves her hands dismissively, and Nicole can only watch in amusement at this discourse she is holding with herself.  

 

Nicole knows that Waverly’s mind is running a million miles a minute; she’s looking for an understanding of the situation that she can start to dismantle, analyze and resolve. If time has taught Nicole anything, it’s patience, and so she seats herself on the arm of her loveseat and waits, allowing herself the luxury of merely observing Waverly’s features, the way her hair swirls around her face as she strides around the tiny space.  _ God she’s lovely _ , Nicole thinks, and not for the first time. 

 

But one thing nags at her and she has to get it out. “Waverly, I don’t think you should tell Wynonna that you know about me yet. Maybe let me talk to her first? I just feel like she is probably a little more...” Nicole pushes her fingers through her hair looking for the right way to say that she’s certain Wynonna will kill her before she lets her sister get hurt, “maybe...single minded about the Game than you are? I want to believe that you can find a way to change what is pre-destined but...it’s coming Waverly. The Gathering. I can feel it. Back in the office when you were telling me about the ‘suspect’ you’re tracking? That’s Constance Clutie, right?”

 

Waverly stops pacing in front of Nicole, once again taking her by the hand. It’s as though, now that she’s allowed herself to open up to Nicole, she can’t keep from touching--ensuring herself that Nicole is real. “How do you know Clutie, Nicole? I didn’t realize...” She rubs a soothing thumb over Nicole’s knuckles. Waverly knows the trauma that Clutie caused Wynonna--and also that Wynonna’s one of the lucky few to have survived her this long. The evidence points to Clutie’s ruthless hunt for other Immortals over the years, but was her hunt for Nicole as personal as Clutie made it with Wynonna?

 

Nicole scowls, even hundreds of years later the memories are fresh and raw, more so now that she’s seen what Clutie did to Juan Carlo. “Clutie has never played the Game fairly,” she explains. “I first encountered her as a youth; she tried to have another Immortal kill me during a battle, but they failed and I killed them instead.” Nicole cringes a little and searches Waverly’s face for judgement or disgust, but finds only compassion there.

 

“It was a long time ago, Nic,” Waverly soothes, trying to imagine how much Nicole’s seen...done...suffered, over the lonely years.

 

“I still don’t understand why Clutie didn’t try to kill me herself. She found me in America years later and would have tried then, but her pride interfered and I escaped. I don’t know where she’s been since, but I recognized her signature in the church today.” Nicole shudders unconsciously. 

 

Waverly thinks about Xavier but says nothing.  _ That’s Wynonna’s story to tell if she wants to _ , she thinks. “None of this is your fault, Nicole,” Waverly insists. “The Game forces Immortals to seek out other Immortals and kill them.” But Nicole knows that there have always been Immortals who avoided this. History supports the assertion that Clutie has made killing into a sport. She’s always loved the draw of pitting Immortal against Immortal, or Immortal against mortal, for that matter, but it’s never been entirely clear  _ why _ . 

 

“You know what, Nic,” Waverly says soothingly, “this seems like a bad thing, but it’s not. We just need to convince Wynonna that we should all work together on this.” Waverly thinks about her sister, and how she always says that Waverly deserves the world. She looks at Nicole and sees pain and resignation, but also trust and hope in her expression.  _ Words can’t express what I’m trying to say _ , Waverly thinks, so she leans in instead and surprises Nicole by kissing her briefly on the lips, with absolute conviction that it’s the right thing to do. Even the softest brush of her lips on Nicole’s sends a bolt of energy from her heart out to the tips of her extremities and she shivers. 

 

With a final stroke of her fingers down Nicole’s cheek, Waverly smiles and moves to the door, stooping to gather her shoes and bracing herself on the doorframe as she pulls them on. “I had a really nice time, Nicole,” she says. “Can I call you tomorrow?” 

 

And Nicole can only nod, because her lips feel seared shut with the impression of Waverly’s remaining on them. Waverly smiles and waves, pulling the door shut behind her as she goes, leaving Nicole alone with her thoughts, even more conflicted than previously. She topples over backwards onto her loveseat with a groan. _She kissed me,_ Nicole thinks _. A pretty girl_ _will literally be my end_. 

 

************

 

Constance paces the worn carpet in her motel room, just on the fringes of the Big City. An almost singed smell trails in her wake, and a few of the less-committed cower at the sight of her, all scarlet lips and false smiles. Darkness runs under her skin like a fleeting mirage, and when she turns her head just right, it’s as if they’re staring at something inhuman.  But in a blink it’s snow white skin and crystal blue eyes again. 

 

Robert Del Rey, with his cocky leer, had called her “hot”, he’d called her “ _ baby” _ when he asked her what she wanted from them, gripping his belt buckle and thrusting out his hips aggressively, and she’d grinned, running a freezing finger over his patches and down his bare abdomen. No one made demands on the Revenants without a price, and the price wasn’t just the hard fucking Robert intended to give this woman, but that would do for starters. 

 

But that was two days ago; two days alone in Constance Clutie’s company, and now Robert is a changed man. The deep scratches on his torso and the purple bite marks on his neck are worthy of the bragging rights, for sure, but he’ll never tell anyone of the humiliation of being forced to suck on her fingers and the heels of her shoes while her eyes bore into his soul. Not a man or woman there would trade places with their Prez. Instead they settle themselves around the room in poses meant to convey disinterest, hostile smirks adorning scarred, tattooed and weatherbeaten faces, bandanas pulled low over foreheads and sunglasses hiding just the slightest shine of fear in their eyes. 

 

Robert sits quietly on the table at the front of the room, a shell of his former bombastic self. He looks the same; rings adorning his fingers, the fur collar of his leather jacket high around his ears, the silver and black mohawk, worn heavy shit-kicker boots dangling off the edge...but his expression is bleak and vacant. He clears his throat and looks at Constance, as if seeking permission to speak, and she allows him the tiniest of nods. 

 

“Constance here has a business proposal for us. We’ve...” and here he swallows visibly, “...talked it over the last couple of days and I’ve decided that the Revenants are in.”

 

The bikers mutter nervously and the room starts to echo with clinking chains and boot heels, as each of them considers for the first time what a commitment to the Revenants could really mean. It’s not unusual for Robert to make decisions for the club without any input, but Clutie is different, they can  _ feel _ it, and every other infraction they’d ever committed seems like a petty offense in the face of what Clutie might want from them. 

 

“Shut up,” Robert roars suddenly, and everyone freezes in place. “There’s no negotiation on this one. This is the big one--what we’ve always needed. If we can pull this off there won’t be no more Vagrants or Mongrels to deal with. We will rule this region.” Robert’s voice is loud but the words feel scripted. 

 

A stirring from the front of the crowd draws Robert’s attention and his face twitches into an expression that’s more snarl than smile. “You have something to say, Bethany?” he purrs dangerously. 

 

Bethany stands sassily, twirling a bored finger in her hair and loudly smacking her gum. “What’s in it for us that you’re making promises to some  _ outsider _ ?” she asks, hoping she sounds more nonchalant than she feels. But the blood drains from her face when Clutie’s gaze angles to catch her eye and she can swear the devil’s in the woman’s otherworldly blue stare. Bethany’s breath catches in her throat and fear makes her choke on nothing. She tugs at the thick leather collar around her neck and coughs, clawing at her throat until Clutie laughs and looks away, leaving Bethany to drop bonelessly onto the dirty carpet.

 

Robert ignores Bethany’s distress and hops off the table; shoving his hands in his pockets, he slouches around the room. “Do you all want to be free from the man? The fucking cops jamming us up...keeping us from what’s ours? We can have it all,” Robert says quietly, and for the first time that evening his expression resembles his usual crafty, semi-homicidal persona, “...take it all. Money, sex...whatever we want, Revenants will own it. And it all starts here with a simple job.” 

 

“This oughta be quick. Once we’re done here, get yourselves strapped and ready to ride.” 

 

************

 

“Hey, McGruff,” Wynonna yells from the hallway, snapping Nicole guiltily out of a pleasant lunchtime daydream that may have involved Waverly. “You want to go on a ride-along with a real cop? You’re actually dressed perfectly for this one; as it turns out ‘casual lesbian’ is way better than ‘full-time cop’ for what we’re about to do.” 

 

Nicole huffs and looks down at her worn Levi’s and engineer boots. She peers over the counter at Wynonna’s skin tight leather pants, sheer mesh top and knee high boots, her Black Badge shield clipped to her belt like an afterthought. “I’d love to go, Wynonna,” she snarks, “who’s taking me?”

 

“Har har,” Wynonna retorts, pushing through the swinging door and over to Nicole’s desk. She points at Nicole’s ancient desktop computer. “Pull up the calls for service there, Red Haught.” Nicole brings up the dispatch screen and feels a twinge of excitement; the queue is usually pretty devoid of anything besides livestock in the road or the occasional public urination complaint.

 

“Shorty’s Bar,” she reads, “caller is reporting a group of Revenants bikers has taken over the bar and is causing a disturbance. Some appear to be armed. Caller is afraid there’s going to be a fight.” Nicole looks quickly at Wynonna. “Revenants as in, the largest international outlaw motorcycle gang in the world? You...have those in...the wilds of nowhere?”

 

“Apparently we do now,” Wynonna says, peering into Nicole’s lunch bag and helping herself to a package of shortbread she finds, “and Nedley wants BBD on it because of the OMG component. He’s concerned that the timing of the Juan Carlo homicide has something to do with the sudden influx of leather-clad felons in his town. Lucky you gets to come with because you are our,” she air quotes, “international liaison.” 

 

Nicole’s up and grabbing her tac bag before Wynonna’s even got the cookies open. “Eager much?” Wynonna laughs, tearing open the package and handing her a cookie. “Good crime dog,” she says, “let’s go.”

 

************

 

Shorty’s is surprisingly quiet when Wynonna swings the blacked-out government Chevy Tahoe up to the curb and hops out, with Nicole following, head on a swivel. Only two motorcycles are parked along the curb, but Nicole notes the red and black Revenants stickers on the helmet slung on the handlebars of one and points it out to Wynonna. 

 

“I don’t feel it,” Wynonna mutters quietly, and Nicole knows what she’s talking about. There’s no hint of an Immortal behind this incident, no electric buzz down her spine. 

 

“Maybe this is an actual police call,” Nicole jokes, “and you’ll have to do actual police work.” 

 

Wynonna points a finger down her throat. “Yuck. I’ll call Nedley for that. Paperwork is  **not** my jam.” She listens for a moment at the door to the bar but hears nothing. “Ok, Scotland Yard, follow my lead.” 

 

“You know Scotland Yard is in England right?” Nicole calls, but Wynonna’s already through the doors and into Shorty’s, and Nicole hastens to follow her. Once inside she allows her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim lighting, but her hand is already wrapped around her baton, at the ready. She watches Wynonna out of the corner of her eye, nonchalantly striding towards the bar even as she surreptitiously loosens the enormous knife in her sheath. 

 

Two bikers are slumped at the bar, nursing beers, and their eyes trail Wynonna as she enters, with more than the usual leering ogle she gets from men at bars. There’s something deliberate about the entire scene and Nicole starts to feel a little claustrophobic, but it’s like Wynonna can sense her hesitation. She beckons Nicole over to the far side of the bar, a perfect vantage point for watching the door and the taciturn day-drinkers. 

 

“Relax, Haught,” she says. “We’re just gonna talk to the bartender about this call and get outta here. It’s weird though because where is the bartender?” Wynonna looks around the bar and even goes so far as to peer over the back side, as if the bartender might be hiding out behind it. She waits, tapping her fingers on the bar for a few minutes before pursing her lips and reaching for a bottle of whiskey. Pouring herself a drink, Wynonna brings the shot glass to her mouth only to stop abruptly when she sees Nicole staring at her in disbelief. 

  
“What? When in Rome…”

 

“Were you ever in Rome?” Nicole asks. “I’ve often wondered why people say that. Was it common to steal alcohol in Rome?”

 

“I had a friend from Rome and she ran a bar so I think she was an expert. But alas, no time for a history lesson it seems,” Wynonna laments, spinning on her barstool and resting her hand casually on Xavier’s pistol, Peacemaker. “Gentlemen?”

 

It seems that the two bikers have decided to make conversation. Nicole notices that one of them is trembling so hard that he’s nearly vibrating. The older bearded one seems to be the ringleader, and he places a hand on either side of Wynonna so that her back is hard up against the bar. 

 

“Buy you a drink?” he grunts, leering down her torso. 

 

“My eyes are up here, bub,” Wynonna says, a hand on his shoulder to push him away. She smirks suddenly. “Besides, I have a drink...but my friend here doesn’t.”

 

“I’m good,” Nicole insists hastily, but bearded guy pushes off the bar to look her over, just as his friend sidles closer to her, bouncing on his toes. “You got a real pretty mouth,” Twitchy barks, and Nicole laughs out loud. “Are you using a line from  _ Deliverance _ to hit on me?”

 

“Ya, never mind, we’re fine here,” Wynonna says dismissively, then under her breath to Nicole, “I saw that movie in the theatre in 1972. It was scandalous.” They’re both chuckling under their breath when Nicole feels a hand first palm, then slap her ass-- hard, and she jumps, pulling her baton from its holster across her back and spinning around. 

 

Wynonna throws back her shot then steps off the stool to stand by Nicole. “Where the fuck is that bartender?” she asks, then shrugs, pointing a finger at Twitchy. “You’re wasting your time, loser. This would probably be a good time to tell you that my friend here is a  _ lesbian _ .” 

 

Beardy’s face twists and he runs his tongue between his lip and gum, fishing out some tobacco and spitting it on the floor. Wynonna and Nicole grimace in disgust. “What a waste,” he pronounces finally, nodding at his partner . “Makes it easier to do this though.” 

 

It’s fair to say that Wynonna and Nicole aren’t terribly worried at this point. They can’t be killed by these guys and the whole situation is almost funny. It’s been a frustrating few weeks, settling in to her place in Purgatory, figuring out what’s up with Waverly...and Nicole’s pleased to find that Wynonna seems as game as she is for a little fun with these guys. So when Twitchy’s fist comes hurtling toward her face, Nicole feints quickly to the left and drops her weight, slipping under his flailing arms and coming up behind. She jabs him hard in the side with the butt of her stick and the breath goes out of him with an “Ooof!” 

 

Twitchy bends over, holding his side and looking murderously at Nicole. “Bitch! Fucking... rug-muncher!” he swears, spittle flying from his mouth, and Nicole lets the rage carry her for the moment, tagging him with a deceptively light flick of the stick across the hard bone at the front of his shin. “Motherfucker!” he shrieks, wrapping a hand around his injured leg and hopping around. Nicole can hear Wynonna snorting in laughter and looks over just in time to watch her drive her knee hard into Beardy’s groin. His eyes widen and his jaw drops as he clutches his crotch, then falls silently to his knees. Wynonna steps in front of him and pulls her knife with the casual air of someone who’s been doing it for years...which of course she has. 

 

“Who sent you assholes?” she asks, flipping the knife easily in her hand and tilting the blade so the man can watch the reflection of the overhead lights trail across the worn, razor-sharp blade. 

 

“Fuck you, dykes,” he spits, and Nicole trips his partner with a sideways push of her staff. 

 

Wynonna laughs, “Better not poke the bear,” she says tossing a casual thumb at Nicole, “Princess Merida here won’t like it.” 

 

“She ain’t no princess,” Twitchy says from the floor, and Nicole rolls her eyes at him in disbelief. “Shut the fuck up, Marty,” Beardy says.

 

“Why are Revenants in Purgatory?” Wynonna probes, poking the toe of her boot into Beardy’s crotch. He squirms away from her, and Nicole can see the muscles in his jaw clench. Nicole presses the end of her baton hard into the meat of Marty’s thigh and he whines.

 

“Tell her, Sam,” says Marty, his eyes rolling wildly, and Sam groans. “Will you shut.the.fuck.up.Marty? Seriously, you are the stupidest motherfucker. Just wait.”

 

“What are we waiting for,” laughs Nicole, just as the doors swing open to Shorty’s. She and Wynonna position themselves back to back as a crew of about twenty bikers surrounds them. “Oh,” she says, her grin fading. “Shit,  _ that _ makes a lot more sense.” 

 

“Cuff ‘em up, then we can have a few drinks before the bitch comes to collect,” comes a voice from the rear, and there’s just too many of them. Nicole slings her stick and hopes for the best as she finds her pack wrestled harshly from her shoulders and dumped at her feet. Wynonna’s divested of pistol and blade, and then they’re handcuffed, left wrist to Wynonna’s right, with about a foot of chain between them. The scrum of leather clad hooligans parts, and a slouching figure in leather and fur paces through the corridor that’s created for him, coming to stand in front of them.

 

His eyes widen suddenly when he takes in his catch. “Wynonna Earp?” he asks, disbelievingly, and Nicole looks back and forth between them, a questioning crease to her brow.

 

Wynonna palms her face as if she hopes when she looks up, this will all be over. “BoBo Del Rey.  Sonofabitch.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear.
> 
> If you're still with me, thanks for hanging in there. I hope you enjoyed Chapter 10! 
> 
> Thanks to @comelayinmybed for beta duty.
> 
> I'm on Twitter @LuckyWantsTo


	11. Chapter 11

“How do you know  _ BoBo _ ?” Nicole whispers, as the biker shuffles over to the bar for more whiskey. A couple of burly Revenants had shoved the two of them down at a table, and Nicole was surprised when the greasy-looking shirtless dude in the weird fur coat had scraped a chair over and silently straddled it backwards across from them. 

 

He’d stared at Wynonna for a long few minutes, drinking deeply from the bottle of whiskey that now sat empty on the table between them, as Wynonna looked everywhere but at him. With a sigh, she finally made eye contact with him. “Aren’t you gonna share, BoBo?” she’d asked, nodding at the empty bottle, and he grunted then, shoving up from the chair. 

 

Wynonna sighs deeply and rolls her eyes. “When Waverly was young, before Black Badge and all this...cop stuff...I spent a lot of time on the road. Any time I felt...” her eyes dart around the room and she leans closer to Nicole, “any time I felt another Immortal getting close to Purgatory I’d bolt. No Immortal ever found me there; I could always lure them away. Waverly didn’t know about the Game until after high school. I managed to protect her at least that long.”

 

A crash from the bar draws their attention and they look over in time to see BoBo crush a glass in his bare hand and shake the broken shards onto the floor. “Give me the fucking good stuff,” he demands of the Revenant who’s stationed behind the bar, and his low sinister tone is more frightening than any raised voice. The Revenant hustles to a door at the back of the bar with a quick look back, “I’ll get it from the basement, Robert.” 

 

“His name is Robert Del Rey, and fifteen years ago he was just another dude with a motorcycle, not patched, trying to make some moves. I mayyyybe...had a casual relationship with him.”

 

“Wynonna, ew,” Nicole says, looking at Robert’s lank hair and tattooed neck and twisting her face in disgust. The handcuff chain clanks against the table as Wynonna pulls her closer and prods a finger into her chest. “First of all, no judgement from you. I can almost guarantee you’ve done something just as dirty in the past few hundred years...it’s impossible to be this goody-two-shoes for that long.”

 

“Actually….” Nicole say, cocking her head thoughtfully and pursing her lips, “Yep. No.” 

 

“Well you have to be pretty Haught Blooded to put your finger up another chick’s hoo-ha and pull it out with a wedding ring attached,” Wynonna points out bluntly. 

 

Nicole sighs in defeat. “Wow, you even managed to get a Haught pun in that jab. Might as well cut my head off right here and now.” 

 

They’re jolted out of their bubble when BoBo returns, slamming a bottle of whiskey on the table, holding out two glasses gripped between the grime-embedded fingers of his other hand. 

 

“Thank you?” Nicole offers. BoBo just stares at Wynonna, who busies herself with pouring them drinks. “Can I get a beer too?” Wynonna asks, shoving the bottle back towards BoBo with a sideways look. 

 

BoBo snags a passing chick in jean shorts so tiny they look like bikini bottoms. “Amber,” he purrs, “please bring my old friend Wynonna here a beer.” 

 

BoBo turns his attention back to Wynonna. “She didn’t tell me that you were the mark. She just said some bitch that was  _ up to her neck _ in debt. How is it possible, you don’t look like you’ve even aged, Wynonna?” BoBo remarks in his quiet halting speech. Nicole mouths the name to herself, “Wy-no-nna,” and BoBo’s bloodshot eyes flick quickly to her. “Nope, nothing,” she says, remembering her de-escalation training.  _ Try to keep the crazy ex-boyfriend Revenant calm _ , she thinks, and smiles disarmingly. He reaches over with the bottle and refills her drink, as Amber deposits a cold Molson in front of Wynonna. 

 

“Drink your drink, Red, this is none of your affair,” Bobo tells Nicole, somehow missing the irony of his statement, as Nicole is the actual definition of a captive audience. But rather than arguing, she sips carefully; she doesn’t want to get drunk and she knows what a lightweight she is. She wills herself invisible, casting careful looks around the bar for their weapons, finally spotting them abandoned a couple tables over. BoBo’s attention returns to Wynonna. “You don’t look a day over twenty-seven. Freedom’s been good to you.”

 

Wynonna huffs and kicks her boots up onto the chair opposite. She’s the picture of disinterest, even as she’s handcuffed to a foreign exchange cop in the midst of one of the most notorious biker gangs in the world, disarmed and definitely disadvantaged. Right now she and Nicole know that they’re not in danger of being killed, but there has to be a reason for BoBo and his gang holding them captive, and what was it that BoBo said about “the bitch” coming?

 

“Why are you guys in Purgatory, BoBo?” Wynonna asks. “Aren’t there other small towns to terrorize?”

 

BoBo grits his teeth. “We go where the job is, Wynonna. You must remember this from when we were together.”

 

“Yeah, I left when the jobs got too...criminal for my liking,” Wynonna retorts, staring hard at BoBo until, to Nicole’s surprise, he drops his eyes.  _ Interesting dynamic here _ , she thinks, filing away this information for later. 

 

BoBo pushes Wynonna’s legs off the chair and moves forward until his knees are touching hers. He looks around the room at his crew, all of whom appear to be trying their damndest to look busy. Lowering his voice even more than his already throaty growl, he says, “I was in love with you, Wynonna. I thought we had something. Everything I did, I did for you.”

 

Nicole watches Wynonna’s face carefully; the normal caginess is somewhat muted, but she does observe an almost crafty shine appear in her eyes. 

 

“Um, no. You were always too serious about us, everything was always about  _ you _ ,  and I told you I wasn’t interested in being tied down. And what about now,  _ Robert _ ,” she asks, waving her free hand around at the leather and denim clad bikers drinking away at Shorty’s supplies.  “Big man in the Revenants, who are you working for now?” 

 

Robert ignores Wynonna’s probing and narrows his eyes. “Where did you go when you left? I looked everywhere for you! I thought...I thought…,” here his voice lowers to an embarrassed whisper, “I never got to tell you how I really felt, baby.” Wynonna recoils slightly as Robert strokes the back of his hand down her cheek and Nicole grimaces sympathetically. 

 

“Yeah,  _ so _ not your baby….,” Wynonna drawls. “That was a really long time ago and I take it you didn’t come here to find me specifically...it must be some other chick that got herself in a bind with whomever this angry bitch is, so like,” she lifts up their joined arms, forcing Nicole’s up into the air too as Nicole grins placatingly, “… if you could just uncuff us, that would be great!”

 

“Yeah, who the hell are you, anyhow?” Robert barks, as if he’s just really noticed Nicole. “You look like a cop,” he says, baring his teeth at her, “Are you a fucking cop?”  Nicole’s mouth opens and closes as she struggles to come up with a response, but all she can think is that this dangerous psychopath is going to be the reason she never gets beyond a chaste kiss with Waverly. 

 

“Focus, Nicole,” comes a hiss in her ear, and she whips around to look at Wynonna who’s throwing BoBo a disappointed scowl. “Seriously, BoBo, would I be with a cop? That’s my girlfriend!” Wynonna says loudly, clasping Nicole’s hand in her own. “Yup, she’s my lover!”  

 

“What the hell?” Nicole blurts, staring wide-eyed at Wynonna. 

 

“It’s true!” comes a voice from over by the bar, and Nicole looks around Robert to see the Revenant called Marty, spinning himself in circles on a barstool. 

 

“Shut the fuck up, Marty,”  comes an echo of voices from around the bar. 

 

“So as you can see, we are very much in love, and that is why we beat up your guys, because they were totally...not respectful of that. Now if you could just unhandcuff us,” Wynonna asks again, smiling hopefully.  

 

Now Robert has a murderous look on his face, mostly directed towards Nicole, she notes. He refills their glasses again, slamming the bottle down hard on the table, and stares at Nicole until she drinks it with a frown and a placating wave of her hand, wishing that her tongue wasn’t starting to go numb. “You’ve always had a hard heart, Wynonna,” he says, low and dangerous. “I thought for a moment when I saw it was you that we could work something out.”

  
“It’s been  _ fifteen years _ , Robert, and there was never anything in the first place, so there’s nothing to work out.” Wynonna interjects. 

 

The echoing silence is well over the border into uncomfortable when they’re blessedly interrupted by the sound of a cell phone, and Robert reaches inside his jacket to retrieve it, glaring down at the screen. His face blanches and he pulls his hand back from Wynonna quickly. “It’s her,” he says shortly, standing abruptly and walking to the corner of the bar. 

 

“Jesus, Wynonna,” Nicole slurs once they have some privacy, “you know I’ma lightweight when it comes to drinkin’, you gotta make him stop refillin’ this if we’re gonna get out of here. And why the fuck would you tell him we were lovers?”

 

“One time I saw you look at my ass, Nicole, you know it’s top shelf,” Wynonna smirks, looking around the room. 

 

“Oh my god, Wynonna, I was never lookin’ at your ass. How are you so relaxed about this?” Nicole asks, scrubbing at her eyes with her free hand and smacking her lips together. “I could really use a glass of water.” 

 

Robert stomps back to them with a leer on his face. “It’s a good thing you don’t love me anymore, Wynonna. That’s gonna make it a lot easier to hand you over to her.” Turning his burning eyes to Nicole, Robert asks, “Where you from, Red? Scotland is it? I can hear it in your voice. When I told the boss lady that Wynonna was with a red-headed chick she got  _ verrry _ interested. She’s coming for you.” 

 

************

 

“Well this is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Nicole,” Wynonna says, leaning back in her chair to watch the Revenants who are getting drunker and rowdier by the moment. 

 

Nicole rolls her eyes and stretches her jaw side to side. “Jesus, Wynonna, if he makes me drink any more whiskey I’m going to collapse. But I’m sober enough to know that if you’d just told him you’d sleep with him he’da let us go.” 

 

“Ex-squeeze me?” Wynonna asks, looking shocked at the implication. “In front of my beautiful girlfriend? Seriously though, Haught, we need to blow this taco stand. I have a feeling we both know who ‘she’ is and I don’t plan to duel her while handcuffed to you. Once she kills you, you’ll just be dead weight.” Wynonna looks pleased with herself and holds up a palm. “High five?” 

 

“Well I’m glad you can joke about Constance Clutie,” Nicole says flatly, leaving Wynonna hanging, “but good news, The Revenants are stupid like most criminals and they’ve left our weapons just right there.” She gestures with her chin towards a table just a couple quick steps away from them. 

 

Wynonna assesses the room. BoBo has retired to the back corner of the bar where a slutty looking chick in a short vinyl dress appears to be giving him a blowjob on the piano bench. Wynonna gags dramatically at the sight and Nicole shrugs as if to say, “you did that.”

  
“Look, Judgy McJudgy face,” Wynonna says, “I went through a few self-destructive phases in my youth, and I was trying to hustle up some cash. He seemed like harmless fun back then. Anyhow, here’s the plan.”

 

Nicole leans in close, bracing herself for a dynamic transition of some sort, prepared for some covert maneuver that Wynonna must have learned after being sworn in as a US Marshal, or the news that Wynonna can...or better yet, has contacted backup for them.  

 

“You’re wearing a wire?” Nicole whispers.  

 

“Yeah,” Wynonna laughs pulling their jointed wrists up to her mouth and muttering clandestinely into her wristwatch, “Tacos are tasty! No, sweet, naive Nicole,” Wynonna whispers to her, “the plan is to walk over and grab our weapons, then fight our way out of here before Clutie gets here.” 

 

“ _ That’s _ the plan?!” Nicole asks, shocked. 

 

Wynonna sighs. “I have both seen, and been in, more than my share of bar fights in biker bars. These guys have literally forgotten that we are here; they’re waiting for Clutie but they’re all scared of her. None of them want to have BoBo’s responsibility for us, and he’s busy getting his pole smoked so...yeah. We’re just going to casually walk over there and grab our stuff.”

 

Now it’s Nicole’s turn to shrug. “OK,” she says, “I guess they can’t kill us anyhow. On the count of three?” Wynonna nods, and with a final look around says, “One….Two...Three.” 

 

Wynonna and Nicole rise from their seats. Nicole is stumbling a little and Wynona throws her a look, but she can only shrug apologetically. Wynonna grabs her hand and they walk the few steps from their table to the one holding their weapons. Nicole smiles politely at the one Revenant who bothers to look their way, raising her hand in a timid wave, just as he jumps to his feet to confront them. The feel of hardwood sliding into her elevated palm centers her and before the Revenant can get a word out, her baton has completed its revolution and impacted the side of his temple. The Revenant drops silently to the floor and lies there, twitching. 

 

Nicole spins her baton and tucks it under her arm. “Thanks,” she calls over her shoulder, covering Wynonna as she grabs her gunbelt and knife. “These idiots aren’t even paying attention,” Wynonna laughs, “I told you we could just walk out of here,” she says adjusting the belt on her hips.

 

“Ummm, Wynonna,” Nicole warns, and Wynonna looks up to see that the previously disinterested looking Revenants are now surrounding them. Marty twitches at the front of the group, wrapping a chain around his knuckles, and Nicole sees BoBo zipping up in the corner, his female companion still on her knees, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The Revenant in front of Nicole is so big and close that her nose is almost touching the tiny black and red “Toronto” patch adorning the breast pocket of his leather vest.

 

Wynonna draws her knife smoothly, sliding her other hand up the chain connecting them and wrapping her palm firmly around Nicole’s forearm. Nicole copies the maneuver. She can tell that Wynonna’s trying to give them a stable platform to fight from, and she’s grateful for the years of training and practice she’s had with her staff, both in full and shorter baton forms, as she waits for their next move. 

 

“You be Scott,” Wynonna says cryptically, scanning the group with her knife held loosely at her side, “I’ll be Tessa.” Nicole feels her hand tighten and start to pull, but she’s thoroughly confused. 

 

“Wait, what? Hold up,” she hisses at Wynonna, holding her baton in her familiar resting position, back along her forearm where she can flick it forward quickly and forcefully. 

 

“Scott and Tessa?” Wynonna asks, starting at her incredulously. “Scott Moir and Tessa Virtue? Canadian Olympic ice dancers? Amirite, guys?” Wynonna gestures at the hostile crowd, amused to hear a few mutters of “Seriously?” from them.  

 

“I thought you were a lesbian?” Wynonna huffs judgmentally. “Aren’t you into like...all sports?” 

 

“I thought  _ you _ were a lesbian,” retorts Sam from the fringes of the surrounding crowd, punching his fist into his palm. 

  
Nicole ignores him. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

 

Wynonna makes a quick step towards a Revenant who’d sidled closer to them, the knife moving so fast as to almost be invisible, cutting air close enough to a tattooed arm to cause the man to stumble backwards. “Someone had to be first, bub,” she winks, before returning her attention to Nicole. 

 

“Ice dancing’s not rugby, Wynonna,” Nicole explains patiently, like she’s talking to a child. “My tribe of lesbians like rugby….or football. Anyhow, Canada’s not the center of the universe.”

 

“Immortals are flocking to Alberta like hipsters to the newest locally-sourced organic pour-over coffee shop, Haught, so you might want to reconsider that sentiment,” Wynonna quips, waving her hand dismissively. “Just...follow my lead.” Wynonna pulls hard, swinging Nicole around her and smiling as Nicole’s foot impacts the kneecap of the enormous man in front of her with a satisfying deep crack. 

 

“FUCK,” the Revenant yells, collapsing onto his side. His fall takes another biker down with him, and Nicole’s baton follows after him, striking hard across his side and knocking the wind out of him, then circling back around for a sharp prod into the solar plexus of his partner. 

 

“Nice one,” Wynonna whoops, adding a sporting swat to Nicole’s ass, flipping her knife expertly and bringing the base of the hilt hard into the adam's apple of the next biker bold enough to step close to them. 

 

“ **Get them!** ” roars Robert, and the fight is on. 

 

Revenants are thugs and petty criminals, and they’re used to intimidating their way into taking what they want. Like most twenty-first century mortals, very few of them have much skill in fighting aside from pulling a gun on their opponent, at the smallest slight. Still, they make their best effort to impress their leader, surging forward like rugby players, the smarter few holding to the edges because there’s something about how  _ unconcerned _ these women look that worries them. 

 

“Judging from the sheer amount of wild haymakers being thrown here,” Nicole says, crouching and dodging as she and Wynonna circle back to back, dipping fists and throwing jabs of their own, “I’m gonna say these guys don’t work out or consider consequences much.” She punctuates the insult by bringing her baton up into the groin of a flabby dude in a soiled white undershirt who is making a valiant attempt to club her with a tire knocker. His eyes roll into his head as he drops, clutching his crotch. “Sorry, buddy,” she offers politely, “but sticks are kinda  _ my _ thing.” 

 

“No one in this room is going to find a cure for cancer, that’s for sure,” Wynonna observes, and she’s sheathed her knife at this point. “May I?” Wynonna holds her hand out for Nicole’s other hand and Nicole seamlessly shoves her baton under her arm, grasping Wynonna’s outstretched hand. She feels Wynonna lean back and understands her intent;  they spin in unison and Wynonna lands a satisfying roundhouse kick into the side of Marty’s face. She lands neatly and laughs. 

 

“That, my plaid-clad friend, was very Scott and Tessa.” 

 

But now the Revenants are angry. Any fun they thought they’d have playing with their captives like cats with a mouse, has been undermined by the sight of their fellows dropping like flies at Wynonna and Nicole’s hands. Clutie wants them alive, but the Revenants are starting to wonder if that only means  _ they have to have a pulse _ , as brass knuckles slide onto fists and chains unsling, dangling ominously. 

 

“So Wy, I’m thinking it’s time to go,” Nicole says, dodging under a whistling leather belt adorned with a heavy spiked buckle. “Some of these weapons are positively medieval.” 

 

“You’re right, Nicole,” Wynonna agrees. She pulls Nicole in close, attempting to sling an arm around her shoulder and then grunts, annoyed, as Nicole’s chained arm pulls awkwardly around her own neck. “Sorry Haught,” she mutters, “that was gonna be a cool exit pose, but bear with me.”  There’s suddenly a stunned hush in the bar, followed by the sound of heavy boots falling over themselves in understanding, as Wynonna raises Peacemaker in the air and fires off a round. “Crazy chick with a gun!” she yells, then points the gun at Robert, the only person in the room who’s not dodging or cowering.

 

“You wouldn’t,” he growls, slinging his thumbs in his waistband, and the Revenants shake themselves off, moving slowly closer, eyes gleaming, the injured who are still mobile rubbing their wounds with murderous expressions, their Prez’s confident aura reassuring them. 

 

“We need to get out of here, BoBo,” Wynonna says, “and you’re kinda in the way. Just let us leave and nobody has to get hurt.”

 

“Any _ more _ hurt,” Nicole chimes in, smiling pleasantly and stretching out her wrist with a series of casual rolls of the baton. 

 

“She’ll kill me if I let you go,” Robert says disinterestedly, “and I don’t like you anymore,” he points a ring-studded finger at Wynonna, “...and I  _ never _ liked you,” he bares his teeth at Nicole. 

 

Wynonna sighs in resignation, but she doesn’t lower Peacemaker. She looks at Nicole, who nods in understanding, and holds out their joined hands, looking down at the chain connecting them. Then, Wynonna shrugs as if she’s reached a decision, and without even looking back at Robert, fires the shot. Robert’s shoulder rocks back and he clutches it wide-eyed, bright red blood seeping between his fingers as he crumbles to his knees. Bethany runs to his side and clutches at him and some other Revenants shout and move towards Wynonna, until she trains the gun casually in their direction as well. 

 

“Now we know which ones are stupid and have a death wish,” she tells Nicole, and Nicole purses her lips and nods thoughtfully. Keeping the gun trained on the crowd, Wynonna walks Nicole towards the exit, and the crowd of thugs parts to let them pass. Shoving open the door, Wynonna turns to look back at Robert. 

 

“You shot me, you bitch,” he hisses, but his eyes are wide and surprised. 

 

Wynonna looks at him, almost pityingly. “It doesn’t seem like it now, Robert, but I just saved your life. Listen to what I’m saying: leave town before she gets here. She’s not here for you and she won’t follow you. But if you stick around, you’re gonna die.” 

 

Robert coughs and spits at Wynonna’s feet, and Nicole looks at him with disgust. 

 

“You should thank her for this, BoBo. You’ve been warned.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're over the hump now, lovely readers. Friendships and loyalties are galvanizing, gay uselessness is increasing. 
> 
> As always, thanks to @comelayinmybed for beta duty and continuing to remain excited for this fic. All (remaining) mistakes are my own.


	12. Chapter 12

“Merely the fact that we are handcuffed together is no indication that anything untoward happened, Waves.” Wynonna looks completely unconcerned as she crams the last bite of donut in her mouth one-handed, licking the powdered sugar off her fingers. 

 

“I feel lucky to still have my hand,” Nicole comments drily. She looks around the empty office.  “Who brings in these donuts all the time?” 

 

“I wasn’t actually going to shoot the chain, Nicole,” Wynonna garbles, jangling the cuffs against the conference table, “unless, of course, the Key Master here couldn’t get these off.” Waverly glares at her as she grabs a ring of keys out of their safe, finally settling on the maximum security handcuff key and unlocking the cuffs. 

 

“Fortunately I keep an entire set of keys for every known handcuff and lock combination, not to mention the over forty hours of specialized lock-pick training I’ve attended,” Waverly adds proudly.  “Wynonna tends to get herself in a variety of situations,” she whispers loudly to Nicole, with a wink, then turns to Wynonna with a dark expression. “I’m still mad at you.” 

 

“Xavier used to have a pair of Royal Canadian Mounted Police Mitten Handcuffs,” Wynonna recalls fondly, ignoring Waverly. “They were actually really kinky looking although not super practical for actual use.” 

 

“Who’s Xavier?” Nicole asks.

 

Waverly looks quickly between Wynonna and Nicole. 

 

“Oh,” Wynonna says, her hand dropping almost unconsciously to the butt of her ubiquitous revolver. “Just a friend I lost...touch with.” Wynonna clears her throat and changes the subject. “Waverly, do you have the files on The Revenants? I can point out who was there.” 

 

There’s more to the story, Nicole knows. She’s been close to that weapon and felt its power, and she knows it’s an Immortal’s weapon. But Wynonna’s own weapon is the shortsword...or its current incarnation presenting as a large bladed hunting knife. Nicole wants to ask more but she can’t...not with Waverly there. Something has to give in this scenario. Nicole doesn’t want to lie anymore, not to Waverly nor Wynonna. She’s just fought a crowd of outlaw bikers back to back with this woman, and there’s no doubt in her mind that they are friends. 

 

This is a new feeling for Nicole. She’s never truly had a friend in the hundreds of years of her life. She’s been in love, sure, and made acquaintances...had dalliances, but as time went on she’d focused solely on her survival, distancing herself emotionally from people to protect them from her own fate.  Now Nicole’s found someone committed to the same fight she is, and she’s pretty sure that Clutie has made it personal for Wynonna as well. Xavier must have been an Immortal, the revolver his weapon, she concludes, and ironically, life is now too short for dishonesty or omission anymore. 

 

And then there’s Waverly. Nicole knows that Wynonna would do anything for Waverly, including die. Their run-in with the Mercenary confirms Nicole’s suspicion that Clutie knows Wynonna’s weakness. Now, the Gathering draws near and Nicole’s just found what feels like her family. She has to make them all come clean to each other, and with a new lightness and sense of purpose, and the beginning of a smirk, she knows what to do. 

 

Nicole looks down at her soft flannel shirt and unbuttons the top few closures. She wanders over to Waverly’s desk, where Wynonna is leaning over the computer, picking out mugshots from an open file on the screen. Leaning over the front of the desk, Nicole looks innocently around the monitor as if to check Wynonna’s work. Waverly pauses in her rapid keystroking, her gaze falling immediately to an expanse of smooth looking, lightly freckled skin. Nicole can’t help but smile just a little when Waverly’s eyes travel downward, following the darkening shadow between her breasts. Nicole clears her throat, and Waverly’s eyes shoot up to meet her own warm gaze. 

 

“Waverly,” she asks charmingly, “could we have dinner? How about tonight? That is, if you’re not doing anything? If you have plans, we can do it another time. ” 

 

Waverly smiles softly at her, her chair creaking as she leans back to see all of Nicole over her computer screen. 

 

“Nicole, that sounds great,” Waverly says, still eyeing her appreciatively. Wynonna’s bright blue eyes are shooting daggers right into Nicole’s heart, but she feels giddy, like a teenager. It was easier than she’d thought it would be, forcing the issue, and the right thing to do because now she’s going to have a date with Waverly. Wynonna will either agree to talk openly with Waverly about Nicole’s Immortality and their  _ conundrum _ , or kill her. Either way, Nicole hopes she’ll get to kiss Waverly first. And once this is all out in the open, they can get serious about defeating Clutie. Whatever happens after that...well,  _ I can at least die happy and with purpose _ , Nicole thinks. 

 

“How about,” Nicole continues, as if they’re the only two people in the room, “you come to my place and I will cook for you?” 

 

“Your apartment?” Wynonna asks abruptly, her voice dangerously low. 

 

Nicole carries on, ignoring Wynonna. “I have something special I wanted to try making. It’s vegan,” she tempts, as if Waverly needs a reason to say yes. 

 

Waverly smiles hard at her, wetting her lips ever so slightly with the tip of her tongue. “That’s funny,” she flirts, “I have something I want to try too.” 

 

“Oh god,” Wynonna wrinkles her nose. “You guys...I don’t think this is a good idea, Waves. Don’t we have all that...research tonight?”

 

“Nope,” Waverly answers lightly. “Sorry, Wy, I have a date with Nicole.” 

 

Nicole pushes up off the desk, not failing to note the way Waverly’s eyes follow the movement. “I gotta go type up this report for Nedley and my HQ,” she says, winking at Waverly and turning on her heel, calling over her shoulder as she goes, “come over around seven, Waves, you know where I live.” 

 

“You know where she...Haught!” Wynonna yells, “We’re gonna talk later!” 

  
Nicole pokes her head through the door opening with a huge grin, singing “Bye, Wynonna.”

 

************

 

A couple hours later, Nicole’s not feeling so bold as she assesses the situation she’s gotten herself into. _ Brilliant, Nicole _ , she chastises herself, looking hard at the recipe on the screen in front of her.  _ It doesn’t even look like the picture. Leave it to you to try to cook vegan Haggis for a first date, ya bloody show-off _ . 

 

The tiny kitchenette is littered with lentils and minced carrot chunks, and the odor of Marmite is pervasive. Nicole wrinkles her nose at the unappetizing-looking brown lump in front of her. “It looks like deer scat,” she laments aloud, then glances at the clock with a groan. Five minutes till Waverly arrives, no time for substitutions now, and anyhow the refrigerator is bare save for drinks, a bachelor’s sampling of cheese, mayonnaise and wilted iceberg lettuce. She shrugs and wraps the loaf into a tied muslin parcel, then lowers it gently into a pot of boiling water. 

 

_ Maybe Waverly has a sense of humor _ , Nicole thinks, washing and drying her hands with a resigned shrug, just as the doorbell chimes. She checks the casual tuck of her lightweight cotton tee shirt, and runs her fingers through her hair, just touseling the natural waves.  Padding barefoot to the door, she opens it, to find Waverly leaning casually against the hallway wall outside. 

 

“I brought you flowers,” Waverly smiles, and Nicole gets a little tongue-tied at the sight of Waverly Earp in a dark blue and green tartan mini-skirt and loose cropped white hoodie, holding out a bunch of multicolored Gerbera daisies. Nicole’s eyes travel down to Waverly’s feet which are clad in a pair of well-loved black Doc Martens and she doesn’t even notice that she’s biting her lip until Waverly’s fingertip lands on it. Nicole blushes and her eyes dart up. “You gonna let me in, Nic, or are we going to do this in the hallway?” Waverly asks with a cute tilt of her head, and Nicole laughs, embarrassed, stepping aside so that Waverly can come in. Nicole carries the flowers the two steps into her kitchenette and locates a large glass jar to put them in, then places them on the table.

 

“They make it look brighter in here already,” she says, and Waverly smiles. Nicole’s grin dimples her face and she leans against the countertop as she flirts, “Or maybe that’s you.” 

 

“Oh you are charming, Nicole Haught, and full of surprises,” Waverly says, bending to unlace her boots. Without hesitation, she walks close to Nicole and presses right against her, tilting her face up. Her eyes travel all over Nicole’s face before they land on her lips, and Nicole leans down until they brush against each other softly. 

 

“Thanks for coming,” Nicole breathes, and Waverly laughs, peering around her into the tiny kitchen. “And miss out on your cooking? I want to hear all about the things you used to eat and….oh my god...did you make vegan Haggis with neeps and tatties?’

 

NIcole cringes a little and opens her mouth to reply that there’s still time to order Chinese food, then closes it abruptly. “Did you say neeps and tatties? How are you so perfect?”

 

“I’m the total package, Nicole,” Waverly jokes, and Nicole finds herself speechless again. Waverly shrugs a shoulder “I’m just kidding,” she laughs, pushing away from the counter and plopping herself down onto the corner of the loveseat. She folds a leg under her and Nicole thinks how good she looks there...how  _ right _ . “You know what a nerd I am,” Waverly continues. “The minute I met you I started reading about Scotland. Haggis is of course the national dish of Scotland, customarily served alongside turnips and potatoes, and you’re so sweet, you paid attention to the fact that I’m vegan and...I’m rambling.”

 

“I love it,” Nicole says honestly, “Can I offer you a drink? Some wine?” 

 

Waverly nods with a smile and Nicole busies herself with opening and pouring the wine. Her gut is humming with nervous anticipation,  _ not the Haggis yet _ , she jokes to herself, but she can’t deny the underlying fear.  _ Am I making a mistake? _ Nicole wonders, but as she turns to bring the wine to Waverly she catches warm hazel eyes, glowing at her with a hint of mirth and intimacy, and her nerves settle. 

 

“Slàinte mhath,” Waverly says flawlessly, raising her glass to Nicole. They sip and Nicole sighs, smiling happily. “It’s really good,” she comments. Waverly takes her hand and tugs her down on the couch. “Not just the wine,” Nicole continues, “but to be able to be honest with someone. It’s freeing really.”

 

“I know what you were doing in the office today,” Waverly observes. 

 

“I need to be able to work openly with Wynonna,” Nicole admits, “but I hope you don’t think that’s the only reason I asked you here. I really wanted to spend the evening with you.” 

 

“I feel the same way,” Waverly says, and she lays her head back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “You have to understand, Nic,” she explains, “Wynonna has always been there for me, for as long as I can remember. Now I know that even when she was gone, and I thought she was running away from me, she was actually looking out for me. She was  _ there _ even when she wasn’t, you know?” 

 

Nicole stretches her arm along the back of the loveseat and Waverly rests her hand atop it, fingers tracing lightly along the tendon of her forearm. 

 

“I’m not a kid anymore, Nicole, but I’m not sure Wynonna noticed that I grew up along the way. I need her but...I need more.” Waverly’s words hang heavy over them. “What do you want tell her?”

 

Nicole laughs and pulls out her cell phone. She opens her text messages and tosses the phone down between them. “What’s this,” Waverly asks, picking up the phone and looking at the screen. “Thirty-eight texts from my sister since afternoon??!”

 

“They start out pretty civil but by the end they’re mostly just incoherent death threats if I even think of dating you. The funny thing is that she’s one of only a few people who can actually kill me, but...I don’t think I care anymore.” Nicole stares meaningfully at Waverly.  “Waverly,” she says, “most people are afraid to die, but for years... _ years _ ...I’ve been afraid to live. Now...I think I have found a purpose for both.” 

 

“Wow.” Waverly’s expression is tender. “I had a feeling you’d be a romantic.”

 

“I...didn’t answer Wynonna.” Nicole grimaces. “Not the most mature, I know, but I was sort of hoping we could present a united front?” 

 

“What would that look like exactly?” Waverly asks. 

 

“I want you to...will you be my girlfriend, Waverly?” Nicole asks hopefully, and Waverly’s face lights up. She turns on the cushion so that she’s facing Nicole and leans forward to cup her face in both hands. “Ever since the first time I saw you, I felt like you were meant to be something in my life. Maybe it was the way Wynonna trusted you--she’s never trusted anyone before, really. But just being with you makes me feel complete in a way, like you were the missing piece in my life.” Waverly leans in and kisses Nicole sweetly on the lips.

 

Nicole kisses back, and it’s gentle and comfortable. She thinks hard about what makes this different from every other time...all the way back to Aileen, before she settles on the reason. There’s something about the way she feels when Waverly touches her, like a soothing balm.  _ I feel safe _ , she thinks. _ Waverly feels like an equal in the way that no one else ever has.  _

 

Waverly pulls back with a smile and Nicole works on catching her breath. “I will happily tell Wynonna that you are my girlfriend, Nicole. I’m not afraid of her, and you shouldn’t be either,” she presses two fingers against Nicole’s lips before Nicole can speak, “--and I’m not talking about the Game right now. You have to trust me that we’re going to figure that out.”

 

“So we’re not talking about work tonight,” Nicole jokes, stroking down Waverly’s arms, just as her kitchen timer dings. 

 

“No we are not,” Waverly replies firmly. “I believe dinner is ready so let’s fish that thing out and dig in.” 

 

************

“My Aileen would be insulted if she heard me say this,” Nicole sighs, wiping her mouth and setting down her fork, “but that was surprisingly tasty. I mean it didn’t taste like Haggis, per se…”

 

“...but it also wasn’t made with sheep lungs,” Waverly finishes with a slight wrinkling of her nose. She leans over the tiny table and intertwines her fingers with Nicole’s. “Tell me about Aileen, Nicole?”

 

It’s a testament to how comfortable Nicole feels with Waverly that she didn’t even notice that she’d mentioned Aileen. She kept Aileen in a secret part of her heart and rarely let her out, and over the years she’d only ever mentioned her on the rarest of occasions. Now she sees no jealousy, only a mild sadness in Waverly’s eyes, and she knows that Waverly understands that Aileen is her past. This, now, is her future.  

 

Nicole takes a deep breath and stands, tugging Waverly up with her. “The cleanup can wait, just come sit with me.” She relaxes back lengthwise onto the loveseat with her legs outstretched as far as they can go, and Waverly settles between her knees, leaning back against her and dropping her head back on Nicole’s shoulder. 

 

“When I was a child, I was different,” she begins, holding Waverly loosely around her middle, breathing in the fragrance of her hair. “My mother died when I was too young to remember her and my father was...what you would call progressive these days. It’s so long ago and yet it feels like just yesterday when I remember growing up in the Highlands. My father taught me to keep animals, and to ride horses, and he was proud of me for learning all those things. He said I was more useful to him this way but also, I would be more useful to myself.”

 

Nicole pauses, remembering Conor, and sends a silent prayer of thanks to him, wherever he is. 

 

“My father’s friend, Ross, kept sheep and he employed me as a shepherd. Aileen was his daughter. I’m certain that Ross and my da knew that we were in love, me and Aileen, however they could understand it, but it was never spoken of. They were both killed in a clan war before it could even become an issue.”

 

“So the clan wars all really happened?” Waverly asks curiously, stroking a warm hand down Nicole’s denim-clad thigh. 

 

“Oh yes,” Nicole recalls sadly. “Sometimes for what would seem like the stupidest reasons, like an insult against someone’s wife.” 

 

“Aileen and I were way out in the Highlands. We didn’t need anyone and kept to ourselves, but Clutie found us somehow.” Nicole’s expression darkens, remembering. “Clutie has powers, Waverly, different from the rest of us Immortals. She can...shapeshift into a wolf.” 

 

Nicole tenses to see if Waverly’s going to laugh at her, but Waverly nods and hums. “Wynonna has seen that, and history supports the assertion. I still don’t know how or why though.” 

 

“I know why!” Nicole barks, then laughs. “Sorry baby, I didn’t mean to yell in your ear. But my First Teacher told me. Clutie killed a shaman to take on their more malleable dark powers. She tried to kill Aileen when we were young but only succeeded in scarring her terribly. I saved her. Aileen loved me all her natural life, even knowing I was cursed to not age with her. Clutie is another name for the devil, Waverly. She  _ is _ the devil, I swear it.”

 

“So Clutie cheated,” Waverly asks, the excitement in her voice barely subdued. 

 

“Well, yes,” Nicole replies, “but so what? The result is the same. The Gathering is coming because almost all of the Immortals have been slain. In the end it will likely be Clutie versus...whomever is left.” She leaves out the fact that she and Wynonna will almost certainly be pitted against each other, but Waverly is too smart to not know that. 

 

Waverly thinks for a moment. The temptation to carry this conversation on is strong. Her brain is satisfied, it’s being fed, but Nicole is warm and soft against her back, and she smells good and Waverly is human, after all. She turns her body so she’s leaning more into Nicole and can look up at her, eyes tracing the smooth edge of Nicole’s jaw before she looks back down at Waverly and smiles. 

 

“There will be time to talk about this Nicole, but right now, can I kiss my girlfriend?” 

 

“Only if I can kiss mine,” Nicole flirts back, leaning in. 

 

The kisses are gentle as they explore each other, Nicole smiling as the pad of Waverly’s thumb smoothes over her eyebrow and traces the scar on her cheek. Her own hands bury themselves in Waverly’s hair, as Nicole has longed to do since probably the first time she saw her, and it’s just as soft and thick as she imagined. Waverly’s shampoo smells fresh and nonspecific; it reminds Nicole of springtime more than anything, with snow outside on the ground. 

 

_ Nicole’s lips are soft _ , Waverly thinks,  _ and  _ **_goddamn_ ** _ but she’s good with them _ . She presses further against Nicole, seeking more contact, then breaks away, resting her forehead against Nicole’s with a smile. “Just a minute.” Waverly pushes up from the couch and swings a leg over Nicole’s lap, pressing her back into the corner of the sofa. She wraps both hands around the back of Nicole’s neck, burying her fingers in thick red hair, and hungrily moves back in. 

 

This time the kisses are more purposeful, and Nicole sits stiffly, heart throbbing in her chest as Waverly slides her tongue into her mouth. Waverly kisses her, then whispers, “relax Nicole, it’s just me.” 

 

The words soothe her, and Nicole melts into Waverly’s touch, allowing her hands to loosen their restrained grasp of Waverly’s hips, pulling Waverly closer to her so that their torsos align in a warm press. Her palms splay around the curve of Waverly’s ass and she presses her fingertips, ever so lightly, drawing the softest noise from Waverly’s throat. 

 

Waverly’s fingers trail nimbly down Nicole’s shoulders, slipping her hands under the rolls of her shirtsleeves, and her thumbs caress the skin along Nicole’s collarbones. Nicole’s almost purring at this point because it’s been  _ so very long _ , and Waverly feels  _ so very good _ , so right against her-- _ on her. _ She runs her palms firmly up Waverly’s thighs, tripping over the material of her skirt and back to her ass, this time wrapping further around her to pull Waverly into her. The action causes Waverly to lightly grind against her waist, and they both moan into a deep kiss. 

 

Nicole’s being careful to keep fabric between her hands, but she gasps as Waverly suddenly slides her hands under Nicole’s shirt without compunction.  Waverly pulls back to look at her, lips shining and eyes hooded. “Is this ok Nic?” she asks, her hands still on Nicole’s abdomen, and Nicole can only nod dumbly. “Good,” Waverly breathes, capturing her lips again, even as clever fingers tease her breasts through the fabric of her bra. 

  
Now Nicole can hear the blood rushing through her entire body; she feels like she’s on fire as she tilts her head and pushes Waverly’s hair out away from her neck. She nibbles softly against Waverly’s earlobe, feeling Waverly’s giggle rumble against her cheek, jumping when Waverly responds by lightly pinching her nipple through her bra, then gasping out loud when the bra falls loose, the clip opened without her even noticing. Waverly pulls off her own shirt, then tugs at the hem of Nicole’s. 

 

“Waverly,” Nicole chastises, doing a damn poor job of hiding her smirk. “This is so very forward of you. What about courting?” 

 

Waverly sits back and boldly cups Nicole’s breasts, pouting slightly as she brushes her thumbs across the nipples. Her eyes squint at Nicole and she nods. “You’re right, Nic, I should stop.” She lowers her mouth to Nicole’s breast and Nicole rears back in pleasure as warm wetness surrounds her. “Should I stop, Nicole?” Waverly asks against her, her tongue jolting fire along Nicole’s nerves, and Nicole can only shake her head. She raises her arms and Waverly divests her of the shirt, lips barely leaving her chest for a moment. Nicole’s fingers flex and creep under Waverly’s skirt until the tips meet the satin trim of Waverly’s underwear. She feels Waverly grin against her as she switches her attention to Nicole’s other breast, and Nicole allows her fingers to trace the outline of the leg band until she’s close enough to uncharted territory that she can feel heat radiating. 

 

_ It’s too much _ , she tells herself. It takes all of her self-control to start to slip her hands back out onto a safer part of Waverly’s far-too-tempting body, when she feels a hand atop her own. 

 

Waverly’s lips travel up her chest to her neck, her tongue teasing along Nicole’s collarbone before she ghosts her lips along Nicole’s ear. 

 

“You’re overthinking again, aren’t you baby?” she purrs. “I want you like this. It’s like we said, I feel like I’ve known you forever. Let me take you to bed.” Waverly stands from Nicole’s lap, chest flushed, her bra strap slid down an arm and her eyes shining, and holds out a hand. 

 

Nicole looks at Waverly, easily the most beautiful thing in this sparse apartment and eternally cold, gray town. She thinks about years upon years of trying to stay alive and unfound, wondering if God was real and heaven obtainable for a soul such as hers. Now she knows that heaven is a person, and that person wants to make her whole again. Nicole smiles and takes Waverly’s hand. 

 

************

 

Waverly undresses Nicole with reverence, lowering her jeans slowly and appreciatively. She can see tension and anticipation warring in Nicole’s body and she suspects it’s been a while for both of them.  _ Maybe longer for Nicole _ , she thinks, a little sadly.  _ All the more reason to make this perfect for her.  _

 

When they’re both naked, Waverly slips one hand around Nicole’s waist and leans up, tilting Nicole’s face towards her for a soft kiss. She warms her up slowly, slipping a tongue in and stroking lightly over Nicole’s body with her free hand until she can walk her backwards to sink down onto the bed. 

 

Nicole slides back until she’s resting on the pillows. Waverly straddles her hips and coasts her palms up Nicole’s body, from hip bones to the sides of her ribs. She leans over Nicole so that her nipples tickle Nicole’s breasts, and Nicole’s hands rise up to caress them. Nicole pulls away from Waverly and slides her thumb into her mouth, then strokes the wet finger against Waverly’s nipple and watches it react, tightening and perking. 

 

Waverly slides her ass back until she’s resting on her heels and Nicole’s upper legs, and glances her fingers along the crease of Nicole’s thigh. She allows her palm to glide ever so lightly over the reddish hairs she finds there, drawing an inhalation from Nicole. Her mouth returns to Nicole’s breasts, first one and then the other, sucking delicately until the nipples are straining and pink.

 

Nicole’s breathing is shortened with anticipation now, she’s so fucking turned on but she wants this to last, and her hands clutch at the bedsheets as she looks to ground herself. She squeezes her eyes shut to try to get some control over herself, and Waverly laughs quietly. “It won’t be the last time Nicole, let me make you feel good.” 

 

Waverly dips her head and suddenly her mouth is on the skin between Nicole’s breasts, but her body is sliding down the bed and her mouth inevitably follows, leaving kisses here and small red marks there. Her shoulder slips between Nicole’s thighs and Waverly rests her cheek on Nicole’s pubic bone, her breath tickling the short hairs around her sex, and waits. Nicole’s eyes meet Waverly’s and she sees only love there; letting go, she nods. 

 

At the first touch of Waverly’s thumb, Nicole jolts. Warmth spreads over her as she relaxes back, enjoying the feeling of Waverly’s mouth softly brushing against her, her clever tongue slipping into her and slim fingers teasing at her clit and slipping down to press against her opening. It’s hypnotic, really, the throbbing of her heart running all the way through her, the calculated press of fingers and suck of lips. Waverly hums against her like Nicole is the best thing she’s tasted, and it’s the sexiest sound Nicole has ever heard. 

 

She’s panting now, her mouth open, and one of Waverly’s hands slides up to play with her breasts. “Waverly,” she manages to get out, “Wave…” But whatever she was about to say is reduced to incoherence as Waverly seamlessly slips her fingers inside. 

 

Waverly wraps her arm around Nicole’s hip, pushing hard into her sex and circling her tongue. She swipes down deep to trace the sensitive skin stretched around her own fingers and Nicole pulls her feet up, canting her hips. The new position creates more friction, as well as giving Waverly more room to work, and she smiles against Nicole, inserting another finger and thrusting hard, twisting and curling with each stroke in, tongue and thumb collaborating at each draw out to elicit prayers and blasphemy alike from Nicole. 

 

Nicole can’t stop herself from grabbing a handful of Waverly’s hair and pressing against Waverly’s face even harder, hips jerking as she chases her pleasure. Her mind is a bliss-filled blank at this point and Waverly’s moans are affirmation, but as she reaches her climax, Nicole is overcome suddenly with a deep sadness for so many lonely years, and she groans out her release, Waverly’s name a soft burr on her tongue. 

 

As they collapse, damp and disheveled onto the bed, Waverly slowly withdraws her fingers from Nicole and slides her body up, pressing tightly against her. She wraps her arms around Nicole and holds her close, shushing her as Nicole shakes with barely restrained sobs. “You’ve lost so much, baby, been so strong alone,” Waverly says softly. “You of all people know that life’s too short to deny yourself opportunities for joy, wherever you might find it. So many things bring me joy, Nicole, being here with you might be the best one.”

 

NIcole nods into Waverly’s embrace and lets her stroke her hair, soothing and cooing at her until she falls asleep, the first dreamless night she’s enjoyed in seemingly forever. 

 

************

It’s bright and clear when Nicole’s eyes open. Her body feels well-rested and her soul feels healed, as she lies on her side, spooning Waverly’s ass tightly into her. She glides her hand over Waverly’s hip and through warm, wet curls. Waverly throws her head back, an arm raised up and around to bury fingers in the back of Nicole’s hair, and a sleepy smile gracing her lips. 

 

“It’s your turn, lovely,” Nicole’s whispering seductively against the sensitive skin of her neck, and Waverly’s not intending to argue, but Nicole suddenly stops abruptly and sits up. The familiar hard buzzing descends her spine and her mind jumps into high alert, calculating the distance from prone position to armed and ready, when a hard banging begins at her door. 

 

“Who  _ is _ that?” Waverly huffs, annoyed, and rolls over onto her back. 

 

“Shit,” Nicole says, realizing exactly which Immortal has found her. “Baby, we should get up. Your sister...”

 

“Open this door before I blow the doorknob off, Haught,” comes Wynonna’s voice through the door, as Nicole slowly draws the blankets over her face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my soft, southern, reluctant beta @comelayinmybed--and to you, dear readers, who are still following my story. I swear, there can eventually be only one. 
> 
> All remaining errors are mine. Sometimes I sneak in and change things after the edits have been done.


	13. Chapter 13

“I’ll take care of this, Nicole,” Waverly says, sliding reluctantly out of their warm bed. Nicole rolls onto her stomach, crossing her arms under her chin and marveling at how easily Waverly picks the right drawer in her dresser to snag a pair of sweatpants. Waverly throws on her own hoodie from the night before, and pulls her hair into a messy bun, studiously ignoring the threats and dull impacts pervading their sanctuary. Nonetheless, Nicole slides her baton out of the holster in her pack, holding it loosely along the side of the bed.

 

Dressed, Waverly closes the short distance from dresser to bed and leans over Nicole, pulling the blankets down and pressing a sweet kiss to her cheek. 

  
“Put something on and don’t hide, Nic. This is your house and we’re both adults.” She notes the baton and laughs. “It’s Wynonna, babe, you don’t need this.” Waverly gently peels Nicole’s fingers off of the weapon and reverently returns it to its holster. Nicole rolls to a seated position on the bed, marveling at how easily her tiny girlfriend disarmed her, both literally and figuratively, blinking her eyes at what appears to be a bluish afterglow of fingers on the smooth, worn hardwood of the baton. 

 

She shakes her head to clear her mind. “But...the Game,” Nicole stammers, “are you going to tell her that you know?” Nicole’s cut short when Waverly throws her a glare. Raising her hands in surrender, Nicole smiles, “Right, I trust you. I want her to know also. I don’t want any secrets between any of us.” 

 

The fight goes right out of Wynonna when the door opens to reveal Waverly’s annoyed face. Wynonna lowers her fist, poised for further abuse of Nicole’s door, and tries for a conciliatory grin. 

 

“Heyyyy, babygirl,” she grins, teeth bared like an apologetic dog. Waverly quirks an eyebrow into the awkward silence between them, allowing Wynonna to stammer briefly, before throwing up a palm. 

 

“Is there a reason you’re pounding on my girlfriend’s door first thing in the morning on a Sunday?”

 

“Girlfriend?!” Wynonna asks, shooting a look around Waverly that terrifies Nicole more than even Clutie turning into a wolf. 

 

“Kinda?” Nicole answers, apprehensively. 

 

“Kinda?!” Waverly throws at her, and Nicole could swear that Waverly’s so angry she’s starting to glow. 

 

“No. I mean  _ yes _ . Definitely.” Nicole shakes her head and strides over to stand...slightly behind Waverly. “Can we help you with something, Wynonna?” She rests a tentative hand on Waverly’s vibrating shoulder, squeezing gently. 

 

“Well when Waves didn’t come home last night I got worried so…” Wynonna looks around her and leans in. “Do we have to do this in the hallway?” 

 

“I’m going to make some tea,” Waverly grits, turning toward the kitchenette and leaving Nicole unprotected. 

 

Wynonna draws her finger across her throat and mouths,  _ You’re dead _ , at Nicole. But Nicole’s feeling light and unconcerned today, and not even Angry Wynonna can change that. 

 

“The beheading jokes are getting old, Wy,” she says. “Do come in.” 

 

Nicole moves aside to leave options open for Wynonna, and drops down onto her loveseat. Wynonna takes a moment to look around Nicole’s tiny apartment, taking in the dinner dishes left abandoned on the table, clothing strewn around the floor, and the unmade bed. She looks at Nicole in her purple tank top and pajama pants, old scars and fresh love bites shamelessly on display. Her heart breaks just a little. 

 

In a way she’d known, somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, what she was doing when she’d invited Nicole to come to Purgatory. From the time that Waverly had surprised Wynonna by proving to be a fully-formed adult, capable of taking care of herself, Wynonna’s been preparing herself to say goodbye. 

 

Waverly deserves to have a future with someone who can be her equal, and Wynonna knows that the Game, her curse of Immortality, has prevented that from ever happening. Waverly’s been too entrenched, focused on solving the Game so that Wynonna can win. But what if she loses? 

 

Wynonna could tell from the moment that she decided to trust Nicole that Nicole wouldn’t leave her sister with a broken heart. The thing is, Wynonna’s seen Clutie fight, and she knows that neither she nor Nicole can win against Clutie alone. But if both of them take her on together...either way Waverly’s not likely to be left alone…

 

“You’re staring, Earp,” Nicole drawls from her couch, breaking through her introspection. Wynonna scowls and plops down next to her, thumping her boots up onto the coffee table, then hastily removing them when Waverly calls from the kitchen. “Get your shoes off the table, Wynonna.” 

 

“Well she’s made herself right at home,” Wynonna mutters sourly to Nicole. Nicole looks softly at Waverly, helping herself to tea bags and putting mugs on a tray she’s found. “Yeah, she looks good in there,” she sighs. 

 

“Eww, please stop making googly eyes at my baby sister. I’m  _ right here _ . Hey, baby girl,” Wynonna yells unnecessarily, “who knew you were the ‘sex on the first date’ type?” 

 

“I can’t say you know too much about what kind of first date I am, considering you were gone throughout most of my formative years,” Waverly shoots back, and that shuts Wynonna right up. Waverly brings the tea out and sets it on the coffee table, and now it’s Nicole’s turn to feel awkward. 

 

“I’m think I’m gonna...clean up the dinner stuff,” she says, pushing up from the couch. “Why don’t you guys talk.” Nicole starts to move towards the kitchen but she’s stopped by Waverly’s hand on her arm, and looks at her curiously. Waverly pulls her in for a quick kiss, and Nicole’s heart lightens impossibly more. She stacks up the dishes and silverware and starts the hot water running in the sink. 

 

Waverly watches Nicole for a moment, her expression a little too hungry for Wynonna’s taste. “I could listen to her talk all day,” Waverly says dreamily, then turns her attention to Wynonna. “Before you say anything,” Waverly tells Wynonna, noting the scowl on her face as she drops onto the loveseat next to her, “I know about Nicole.” 

 

“What’s there to know about her, besides that she has an unusually excessive amount of tea, even for a Scottish person?” Wynonna looks thoughtful for a moment, finger on her chin. “Scotch person? Scooch?” She snickers and leans forward,  busily shuffling through the tea boxes. “Hibiscus, Earl Gray, Genmaicha...oooh this one looks like popcorn…” She stops when Waverly lays a gentle hand on her knee. 

 

“I understand why you didn’t tell me, Wynonna,” Waverly starts, “but what’s weird is that I think you’re ok with what’s happening here. Why?”

 

“It’s not really my business who you get busy with, babygirl. You could do worse than Haught Scot, I guess...not that anyone is really good enough for you….”  

 

Waverly stares at Wynonna until she settles down, stops messing with the tea and rambling. “She’s Immortal, Wynonna. And she’s scared shitless that the Gathering is coming. Why did you invite her to Purgatory? Why did you make friends with her? Why…” Waverly lowers her voice, “why didn’t you kill her at the conference?”

 

Now it’s Wynonna’s turn to stare at Waverly, darting her head back and forth to see if Nicole’s listening. “Waverly! Look at her! She’s like a big, tall...puppy!” Wynonna smirks. “Didn’t you always want a puppy, Waves?”

 

But Waverly’s having none of Wynonna’s teasing and deflection. “I promise you she is a fully-formed adult human, who also happens to be amazing in bed,” Waverly deadpans. 

 

“Jesus, Waverly,” Nicole and Wynonna exclaim simultaneously, Nicole’s face blushing dark red. “Sorry baby,” she apologizes, “I was just gonna grab a towel and shower.” Nicole scurries around the room, grabbing clothing and studiously avoiding Wynonna’s glare, then escapes into the bathroom. The sound of water running echoes through the cheap walls of the tiny apartment. 

 

_ Baby _ , Wynonna mouths, feigning nausea, as Waverly glares at her. “Do you…” Wynonna tries, steeling herself. 

 

Waverly hesitates. She knows what Wynonna’s asking but she’s not sure how to answer. Up until she met Nicole she would have told anyone who asked that she was too busy for a relationship, that Wynonna’s the only person she needs in her life, that she’s  _ married to the job _ . 

 

But now? Now she might be falling in love with a woman she’s only just gotten to know.  _ Maybe I just haven’t had a real relationship before _ , she thinks,  _ maybe I’m mistaking lust for love _ . 

 

“I know that look,” Wynonna says, looking at her seriously. “It’s the one you used to get when I’d buy you a new 5,000 piece puzzle...but that regular people get when they see chocolate cake or...a really nice ass. You’re the only person in the room who isn’t terrified, Waverly. Why?”

 

“I have a hypothesis,” Waverly says thoughtfully, “but I need to do more research and I don’t want to talk about it until then. Let’s discuss the elephant in the room, so Nicole can stop hiding in her shower?” 

 

Wynonna throws her head back to bounce against the loveseat. “Fiiiinne, you’re banging Haughty. It’s fine. Have your fling.”

 

Waverly feels tentative, her body tensed for rejection as she tries to express what she feels. “I know you’re hoping it’s a fling, Wynonna, but I think I’m...falling in love with her.”

 

Wynonna turns to look at her baby sister. Beautiful, she thinks sadly, and smart, and deserving of normalcy. She remembers the deal she made with herself, and allows a smile to spread across her face that she hopes is convincing. Resting a hand on Waverly’s knee she says, “I’m so happy for you, babygirl. For all my teasing, Nicole’s a catch. She better not hurt you though,” she adds seriously. And Waverly feels like she can finally breathe. Lightness settles along her shoulders and Wynonna watches with a kind of awe as Waverly’s face is suffused with a rosy glow.  _ I’m witnessing pure joy _ , she thinks in wonder.  _ How have I never seen that before _ ?  

 

Nicole pokes her head out of the bathroom then, red hair darkened and wet, a cloud of freshly-scented steam chasing her. She’s back in her soft worn jeans, this time with an unbuttoned henley over the top. She’s barefoot and relaxed, and Waverly licks her lips, standing up suddenly and grabbing Wynonna by the arm. “You need to leave now, Wynonna,” she says, pushing Wynonna towards the door with her eyes fixed on Nicole, “but meet us in a couple hours at the office. We have work to do.” 

 

************

 

Clutie’s settled low in the seat of her ostentatious pink Lincoln, red pointed fingertips tapping on the steering wheel, when Wynonna exits the apartment building. She makes a note of the pistol and hunting knife, worn boldly as Clutie knows Wynonna’s done for years. Her fingers rub together unconsciously, rough in the places where Peacemaker burned her years ago. 

 

Pedestrians on the street feel a shiver in their bones when they notice Clutie, even with her otherworldly beauty and the oddball car, what should be novel or ridiculous has the effect of a sinkhole opening suddenly in front of them. They startle and veer, crossing the street, or changing direction with a confused mutter or crinkle of the brow. 

 

“ _ Pancho met his match you know _ ,” Clutie hums along to Townes Van Zandt on the radio.  _ These two Immortals together _ ? Constance muses, considering the information she got from Robert Del Rey prior to his...departure. She considers what she knows of Wynonna and nods thoughtfully.  _ It’s always a pretty girl that can get the Scot to drop her guard, and she’s never had it in her to hurt another first. Wynonna must intend to kill her in her sleep.  _

 

Clutie watches Wynonna grow smaller in the side mirror, then ignores everything else but the lighted window on the second floor of the unassuming building. She’s pleased to see the red-haired Immortal cross the room, confirming her suspicion. She bares her teeth, but her eyebrows raise, surprised and pleased when Waverly steps into view, capturing Nicole around the waist and leaning up for a long kiss. 

 

“Well, well, well, the  _ sister _ ,” Clutie mutters to herself, darkness threading through her eyes as she runs her tongue over the wicked point of her canine tooth. “This makes everything so much easier.” She shakes her head judgmentally.  _ The little stray can be the death of both of them.  _

 

********

 

An hour later Nicole slides up the bed with a proud smirk, slinging her arm across Waverly’s stomach. She trails a damp finger up between Waverly’s breasts as she watches her chest rise and fall rapidly. Waverly’s eyes are closed tightly and her skin shines pink with effort, her lips parted. After a few moments she rolls her head to the side, eyes still closed, and her chest starts to rumble with suppressed laughter. Waverly’s hand rises lazily to capture Nicole’s forearm and she cracks an eye to look at Nicole.

 

“Dear god, Nicole, that...that thing you were doing with your tongue…” Waverly makes a slow circle with her hand before it flops back down onto the bed. “I can’t feel my legs.” 

 

Nicole’s heart is soaring and she stares at Waverly with unabashed heart eyes. She’s buzzing with pleasure and feels truly alive...to the detriment of her good sense. When Waverly finally rolls over and kisses her, she’s already drowsy and unguarded. 

 

Waverly gropes at the nightstand until she reaches her phone. “Shit, Nicole, it’s already almost three. I need to run home and change and we need to get to the office.”

 

“You could just shower here if you want,” Nicole mumbles sleepily, rolling over onto her face. 

 

Waverly nibbles along her ear and kisses the nape of her neck then laughs, her long hair tickling Nicole’s shoulders and drawing a shiver. She pulls the blanket up, reluctantly covering Nicole’s ass. “No baby, I need clean clothes and you need to shower again too. You smell like sex.” Nicole smiles into her pillow as Waverly rolls up into a sitting position, looking back at Nicole. “Don’t fall asleep for too long. Can you meet me there around five?”

 

“Mmph,” Nicole manages, her eyes drifting shut as Waverly dresses in her discarded clothing from the day before and collects her things. She laces her boots at the door and, with a final soft smile at Nicole’s sleeping form, pulls the door quietly shut behind her. 

 

************

Nicole sprawls at her scarred wooden loaner desk and pushes around her paperwork, trying to focus on the mundane tasks that she’s required to complete as a condition of her exchange program. The problem is, she’s gotten a taste of Black Badge work and now everything else is boring. And It certainly doesn’t help that her mind keeps wandering back to Waverly. She blushes a little thinking of the time they’d spent together. 

 

“It’s a funny thing about time,” Wynonna’s voice interrupts her reverie, reminding her that living her life in a truce with another Immortal pretty much nullifies her early warning system. “When you’re Immortal time seems to drag at first, then speed by like everyone else’s lifetime is a moment of yours. It’s just when you have something in your life to really care about that you get a good concept of where you are in time, and what’s ahead of you.” Wynonna leans onto Nicole’s desk with both palms, and stares at her seriously. “Does that make sense?” She doesn’t wait for Nicole to answer before continuing, abruptly changing the subject.  

 

“Lucado went back to DC and took Jeremy with her, so if we need resources from Black Badge, I’m not sure who we even work for anymore.”

 

Nicole shakes her head slowly, trying to keep up with Wynonna’s train of thought. “That’s….odd, but...listen, Wynonna, you know I really care about Waverly too. I would never do anything to hurt you guys. I trust Waverly; she seems to have an idea of how this can work. If Clutie’s still here in Purgatory we need to work together to dispatch her. I don’t know how much Black Badge could help with that as it is.” She looks at the yellowed clock hanging on the wood-paneled wall of the station. “Where is Waverly anyhow? It’s not like her to be late.”

 

Wynonna pulls out her phone and swipes the screen, but finds no messages from Waverly outside of the “headed home” text from hours earlier. She fires off a quick text in response but gets no reply. Nicole watches as Wynonna starts to pace around the office, eyebrows drawn in as she stares at her phone. 

 

“Did she say she was going anywhere besides home?” Wynonna finally demands of Nicole. Nicole sits up straight at her desk. Her hair feels like it’s standing on end and her palms are starting to sweat.  She rubs them along the thighs of her jeans, thinking hard. “No. She said she was going to head home to shower and change, and we’d meet here.” Wynonna stares at her with an unfamiliar look in her eye and Nicole’s not sure she likes what she’s seeing there. She stands up, both to give herself the advantage of her greater height, but also to allow herself room to fight, if necessary. 

 

“I swear to god Wynonna, she left and I fell asleep. I would never do anything to hurt Waverly.” 

 

“I knew I should have got her goddamn login for Find My iPhone.” Rage hurtles through Wynonna’s body in a torrent of emotion.  _ Stupid _ , she berates herself,  _ bringing an enemy into our lives _ . Immortals can only die or be killed in her world.  _ This was a bad idea, all of it _ . Wynonna’s hand drops to the hilt of her blade, and Nicole’s eyes follow. 

 

“Wynonna,” Nicole warns, even as her own hand wraps around her baton, resting on the desktop. 

 

The door bangs open then, and Wynonna steps rapidly backwards until she’s shoulder to shoulder with Nicole, both of them breathing heavily and a dark flush visible across Nicole’s fair skin. 

 

“Sorry I’m late,” Waverly trills, her face obscured by a large carton of books that she drops unceremoniously on the desk, with a grunt. “I stopped to get these books that Jeremy shipped from…,” She looks at Wynonna and Nicole, her expression dropping into a dark scowl as she takes in their postures and half-drawn weapons. “What’s wrong with you two?” Without hesitation, Waverly pushes herself in between them, shoving their hands off of their weapons. With a sharp look at Nicole, Waverly presses both palms to Wynonna’s shoulders. “Back up, Wynonna,” she admonishes. “Are you two fighting? You are both in serious trouble.”

 

Nicole starts to snicker when she notices that Wynonna actually looks mortified, but it quickly turns into a cough when Waverly’s head snaps around to glare at her. 

 

“I...errr...um,” she tries. Nicole looks at Wynonna. “She started it,” she finishes lamely.

 

Wynonna’s jaw drops as she turns to look at Nicole, but fortunately Waverly intervenes, shaking her head in disbelief. “I  _ told _ you both to trust me. We’re never going to get anywhere if you don’t trust  _ each other _ .  Not to mention,” she adds cryptically, “we need the balance to stay on our side.”  

 

“The...balance?” Wynonna asks. “The balance of what? What is all this anyhow?” She picks up a thick leather-bound book with frayed binding in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. “ _ Greek Primordial Deities _ and  _ A Scientific Analysis of Weather Anomalies in The Fourteenth Century _ ?” 

 

Waverly pulls out two chairs in front of her bulletin board and gestures her sister and girlfriend into them. “I have a lot to talk about with both of you. Sit.” She glares momentarily until Nicole hustles into her chair and Wynonna drops obediently into the other. 

 

Waverly takes a moment to open the sides of her board until all of her research is visible. Nicole watches her stroke her hand over some of the documents she has pinned to the left wing, then turn back to the table and open a large, dark green and gold book to a previously-marked page. When Waverly turns to look at her, the warm feeling in her chest expands again.  _ How can she make me feel like all is right in the world? _ Nicole wonders. She looks at Wynonna and sees that even she appears visibly calm in Waverly’s presence. 

Waverly takes a deep breath, steepling her fingers against her mouth, then speaks. 

 

“I have dedicated my life to trying to save  _ your _ life, Wynonna. I guess...both of our lives have been about the Game.” Wynonna shakes her head and leans forward, but Waverly shushes her with a glance. “Let me talk, Wynonna...I’ve never begrudged you any of this, you took me in when I had no past to remember or long for, and no future to plan for, and I love you so much. I always thought the most important thing was for me to figure out how you could win, but something never made sense to me about the so called  _ rules _ of the Game, and now everything’s coming together.”

 

Waverly’s got that look in her eyes that Wynonna recognizes from when she was a tiny child. It’s the look she gets when she’s solved something complicated before anyone else, which generally happens to be always. She wills herself to be patient and let Waverly explain herself, trying hard not to notice the soft looks Nicole’s tossing at Waverly, hoping that Waverly won’t lose her focus in the face of temptation, then hating herself for being so selfish. 

 

“One of the things I noticed in doing my research was that there was one common theme, but infrequent because we’re talking about  _ a lot _ of time, and I had to go really deep into some history that was maybe only oral-tradition more than factually accurate.” Waverly points at a timeline, roughly in the middle. “The great San Francisco earthquake of 1906. Over three thousand people killed and the majority of the city destroyed.” She moves her finger to the left, smoothing across several bullet points. “1792, a mega-tsunami in Japan kills over 14,000 people. The eradication of the entire Minoan civilization following a volcanic eruption and tsunami in the Mediterranean around 1500 B.C.” Waverly’s pacing now and throws her hands in the air. “Pompeii!” 

 

She turns to look at Wynonna and Nicole, who at this point are staring back in rapt attention, if not exactly for the same reasons.  _ Focus, Haught _ , Nicole chides herself, but it’s hard when Waverly’s in lecture mode. 

 

Waverly gestures towards a worn-looking manuscript in her stack of books, bound in marbled black hardboard. “One of the first documents I ever translated in Japanese. This one is a copy on loan from a contact at the National Archives. The story says that in 1594, a man by the name of Nakano had made a name for himself as a magician of sorts. He lived in a cave beneath the Mountain of Niri and trained apprentices as illusionists. Nakano was found by a group of mortals in service to what they called White Spirit Woman; they boasted of beating him and cutting off his head and limbs, believing him dead. When he showed up later, very much alive, the villagers believed that Nakano had created a most convincing illusion.”

 

Wynonna rolls her eyes. “Does this  _ White Spirit Woman _ happen to have perfect Barbie blond hair and a lifetime case of resting bitch face?”

 

Waverly smiles, her eyes creasing appealingly as she points a finger at Wynonna. “Bingo! I’m certain this is an early recorded instance of Clutie, manipulating mortals through fear of the spirit world. Just another type of mercenary, however unwittingly. History supports that fact actually, because Nakano’s name resurfaces in 1792, when a man by this name was beheaded in a violent display within a Shinto shrine...that’s the ethnic religion of the Japanese people,” Waverly throws out, offhandedly, prodding hard on a large red circle on her timeline, “anyhow, some say they witnessed a Geisha killing him, but you’ll notice that his murder coincides with the tsunami I mentioned earlier. The incident was just horrifying enough that fortunately someone documented it! Nakano’s sword was found broken at the scene of his murder.”

 

Nicole can’t sit still anymore, she’s gone from bouncing her knee and shuffling her feet around to bounding upright, and she moves close to the board to get a look at the other incidents and dates. “I assume San Francisco has a story?” Nicole prompts. 

 

“Yup!” Waverly’s more excited about mass homicide than any one person should be, but Nicole can’t even be disturbed, she’s feeling like they’re getting somewhere finally and she wants to hear anything and everything Waverly’s obviously dying to tell them. 

 

“Okay so this one was a bit easier because it’s more recent. When I started to see the pattern….you do see the pattern forming, right?” she asks, looking at Nicole and Wynonna inquiringly.

 

“Hallowed ground,” Wynonna says, and Nicole nods in agreement. “Yes, that and...large numbers of mortals killed? And mercenaries?”

 

“That’s right, baby!” Waverly grins, reaching out and giving Nicole a soft stroke down her cheek, and Nicole smiles dopily back at her. 

 

“ _ I _ mentioned hallowed ground,” Wynonna says flatly, looking between them. 

 

“Sorry, Wy,” Waverly smirks, and grabs both Wynonna and Nicole in a squashy hug. “Great teamwork, girls!” she crows. Wynonna smiles in spite of herself but quickly tries to look annoyed. Waverly jumps back and knocks the back of her fist against the board. 

 

“So San Francisco! I had to look around for a decapitated body in a place of worship of some kind, but I eventually found it.  A death certificate for one Darius Grayson, Protestant minister, found murdered in his church by a parishioner named Hugh Fitzgerald. The police report is brief because no more than a couple hours later, the earthquake struck the city. The only portion of the report that was completed, noted that Mr. Fitzgerald observed a blond woman fleeing through the rear of the church when he came in. It’s a miracle the report survived the fires that followed.”

 

“I remember Eliza talking of an Immortal called Darius...something-or-other….some kind of Visigoth warlord. He gave up his sword and renounced the Game, became a religious man. I wonder if it’s the same one,” Wynonna muses, her mouth turning down in a slight frown at the thought of Eliza.

 

“And I know about Pompeii,” Nicole interjects. “My first teacher told me about it.” She looks at Wynonna then, “and about you. He knew you in Tombstone.”

 

Waverly sighs. “You’ve been so many cool places, Wy. I swear, if I could build a time machine.” Waverly notices both women staring at her and shrugs awkwardly. “I mean, it’s interesting!” 

 

“Doc Holliday was your First Teacher?” Wynonna asks, shrugging when Nicole nods. “He was a good dude. He left us alone there, respected me and...respected me,” she finishes lamely. 

 

Nicole notes the “we” but pretends not to; she’ll either learn about Wynonna’s past or she won’t, that part is up to Wynonna. She sits at the edge of her chair and spins her baton absently on its end, considering the board. “OK so….if I’m reading this right, you have at least five documented instances of probable Immortals being slain on hallowed ground of one sort or another. Including Juan Carlo.”

 

Waverly nods.

 

“And the weapons?” she asks.

 

“Either broken or previously surrendered voluntarily by the Immortal and lost to history.” Waverly answers. 

 

“But what about Juan Carlo,” Nicole wonders. “Why hasn’t there been a natural disaster here?”

Waverly bounces nervously on her toes in front of the board, tapping on her teeth with the tip of her finger. “That is the one thing I had the hardest part understanding yesterday. By the time I realized what happened it was well beyond the time when the disaster would have occurred, if it follows historical precedent. I think...and it’s just my hypothesis, that the Ghost River Triangle is the center of supernatural phenomena somehow. It’s a….”

 

“Crossroads?” Wynonna blurts suddenly. “Eliza,” she looks knowingly at Nicole, “my First Teacher, mentioned that the Gathering would happen in a place where heaven and hell meet in the middle.”

 

“So this region kind of...hides supernatural phenomena?” Nicole asks. “That explains Black Badge’s interest anyhow.” Waverly’s nodding so hard her braid is bouncing, hands out in front of her. “Yes exactly, baby! There was evidence in the church of what happened but the...let’s call it negative energy? Just absorbed into the GRT.”

 

Wynonna’s been listening quietly to the exchange for a bit, and she thinks about whatever miracle brought Waverly to the Ghost River Triangle. She’s pretty certain that she and Nicole aren’t the only two so-called “supernatural phenomena” in the room, but she stands now and walks close to Waverly’s books, lifting at the cover of the top book and shaking her head in awe. “Look, Waves,” she says, “this is all very impressive, my god how many languages can you actually read?...but...what’s the point?”

 

“Ahh,” Waverly cheers. “The point is that I believe that Clutie has broken the game!” Waverly points excitedly to a photograph of what appears to be a rune-covered scroll, pinned up on the corner of the board. “I found this document in the private collection of a guy I met in an online forum for Nordic history aficionados.”

 

“You’re so hot,” Nicole breathes, as simultaneously, Wynonna mutters, “I’m so sorry, baby girl.” They stare at each other, wide brown eyes and narrowed blue. 

 

Waverly winks at Nicole. “After careful translation, I can only surmise that this document may be the earliest description of the Game in recorded history! And if you look here,” she points at a section about a quarter of the way down the page as Wynonna and Nicole gawk at her, “it essentially says that the balance of good versus evil will affect the ability of the One to win the Prize at the Gathering. Don’t you get it! Clutie’s cheated so many times, the balance  _ must be _ off. Too many ‘dark Quickenings’ if you will.”

 

“So that’s it?” Wynonna asks. “I feel like that’s exactly where we were before this. Don’t get me wrong, baby girl, it was riveting, but I feel like that’s where we were before the history lesson. We have to kill Clutie, she’s super evil, what’s different?”

 

“What’s different is this part right here,” Waverly says slowly, and there’s a look of trepidation on her face that wasn’t there previously as she trails her finger under the runes, translating. “It appears to say, ‘If the champion comes forward with the darkness behind them, the remaining weapons must join in lightness to defeat.’” 

 

Nicole’s suddenly hyper-aware of the warm wood in her palm, the only thing she’s known for nearly her entire life, as she suddenly understands what Waverly’s saying. 

 

“I think...there can be only one... _ weapon _ .” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're picking up speed now, the Gathering is near, and so is Emerald City Comic Con, so I've decided to post two chapters of this fic this week. I'd like to have the story completely posted before Seattle. My goal is to post Chapter 14 on Friday (work schedule permitting). 
> 
> Thanks to @comelayinmybed for getting the beta done in deference to my whimsical nature, even though she's been sick and can only eat french fries. Therefore, all errors are hers---er, MINE.
> 
> Find me on Twitter @LuckyWantsTo


	14. Chapter 14

“Is this too soon?” Waverly exhales in a rush, sitting up on Nicole’s hips and sweeping her hair out of her face over her shoulder, but she’s not talking about the sex. “It feels too soon.”

 

Nicole smoothes her hands up Waverly’s thighs to her hips, her eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of Waverly, wet against her stomach. She ghosts a palm over the top of Waverly’s leg and down between them, her thumb slipping just inside. Nicole can’t take her eyes off Waverly’s face; how her lips part slightly in her pleasure, the flush high on her defined cheekbones, and the way she gazes down at Nicole through hooded lids. 

 

“Hmmm?” Nicole asks, distracted. Her free hand reaches around to cup Waverly’s ass and pull her down firmly, encouraging Waverly to drop forward and grind against her. She’s not disappointed when Waverly leans to kiss her, her nipples teasing against Nicole’s chest and her long hair tickling around Nicole’s face. Nicole runs her hand up Waverly’s back until she gently encircles the back of her neck. When they break away she holds Waverly there, breathing against her lips, and Waverly can feel Nicole’s smile.

 

Waverly can never get enough of that latent brogue rolling off Nicole’s clever tongue, but this time Nicole’s words feel like they’re being tattooed on her heart, beautiful and painful all at once.

 

“Waverly, I think I’ve been waiting 487 years to find you. It’s not too soon for me, love.” 

 

************

 

“You’re going to be late for everything now that you have a girlfriend, aren’t you?” Wynonna grouses from where she lies on her back across a desk, yoga-pants-clad legs crossed over each other, as Waverly darts into the office and drops her bag on the floor with an apologetic grin. 

 

Wynonna rolls up onto her feet as Waverly peels off her green zippered track jacket to reveal a fitted sleeveless workout shirt and lean muscled arms. Gripping her hands behind her back, Waverly stretches, shoulders flexing. 

 

“Shall I list all of the things you’ve been late for in my life, Wynonna?” she asks sweetly, “or would you rather take it out on me on the mats?”

 

Wynonna scowls at her. “Post-coital bliss looks good on you, babygirl,” she smirks, then reconsiders her jibe. “Ew, nevermind.” Wynonna shakes it off and gestures at an array of weapons laid out nearby. “You wanna just spar or what? I can tape your hands if you wanna box?” She watches Waverly ignore the common edged weapons, such as knives and a machete they typically fight with, and move directly towards a matched set of rattan batons that they recently acquired. Wynonna smirks. “Of course you choose Tartan MacLesbian’s weapon. Please don’t get kinky with them, babygirl.” 

 

Waverly rolls her eyes at Wynonna and picks up the lightweight fighting sticks. She strolls out to the middle of the mats, rolling her neck and twirling the sticks experimentally before settling herself into a defensive position. Wynonna sets up across from her, her shortsword appearing in her hand as if it had always been there.

 

As they begin to slowly prowl around each other, seeking an opening, Waverly lectures. “You know, Wynonna,  _ Arnis _ is the national martial art of the Philippines. Arnis ‘baston’ might seem like a weak choice of weapon, but in fact they’re intentionally made from rattan because it doesn’t fray or crack when struck by an edged weapon such as your shortsword.” Waverly punctuates her statement with a rapidfire flick of her right hand stick in a half-circle fan shape, which Wynonna easily parries with her sword, and Wynonna frowns, recalling a similar lecture about underestimating a weapon.

 

Waverly creates a small amount of distance between herself and her sister, ever conscious of her footwork. She’s done her fair share of sparring with Wynonna over the past few years, and she’s watched Nicole spar, using her staff, but Arnis is new to Waverly and self-taught. She’s trying hard to remember the moves, the proper steps and strikes, but as usual she’s distracted by how much there is to learn. To be fair, the weapon is much different than Nicole’s fighting stick and she starts to explain this.

 

“Nicole’s weapon, in its true fighting form, bears more similarity to a bo-staff,” she explains, darting around Wynonna and dropping low to a knee, sweeping with one stick even as she parries a downward chop of Wynonna’s sword with the other. “It doesn’t hurt that she looks amazing using it either,” Waverly grins, but upon hearing her words Wynonna leaps over her stick with an impatient sound, kicking Waverly’s legs out from under her and straddling her hips. Waverly just manages to cross the sticks under her own throat when Wynonna presses the knife blade down on them.  

 

“Can you quit with the lecturing for five minutes, Waverly?” Wynonna growls impatiently, and Waverly’s ramble cuts short as she looks into her sister’s face. There it is, the furrow between her brows and the glower she brandishes at Waverly... Waverly lets go of the sticks and drops her hands loosely at her side. “What’s wrong, Wynonna?” she asks. 

 

There’s a moment when Wynonna just sits there, pinning her sister down, her eyes tracing familiar contours as Waverly lies there, totally trusting and unconcerned. “Why aren’t you afraid, Waverly?” she asks lowly, then louder, “You should be afraid.” Waverly feels an instantaneous sharp spike of fear. Her entire life, Wynonna’s blade has just been another thing that completes her sister, but it’s suddenly sharp, cold, and deadly against the bare flesh of her throat. Wynonna looks so...distant. There’s a flat sheen darkening her eyes, as if she’s possessed or something. Waverly thinks of the stories she’s heard; that very blade meeting the throat of another, and swallows hard. 

 

“I know you’d never hurt me Wynonna, that’s why,” she finally says hesitantly, and she brings her hands up slowly, palms out in supplication, then gently removes the knife from her throat. Wynonna sits up on her knees, still straddling Waverly, and allows the blade to drop to her side. “Not on purpose. Shit,” she intones softly, sliding backwards off of Waverly and onto her back on the mats. “Shit, Waverly...I’m so sorry.” Waverly stays quiet, moving only to interlace her fingers with Wynonna’s and waits. 

 

Wynonna looks away from Waverly’s probing gaze, rolling her cheek onto the mat. “Did I ever tell you about how Xavier and I made money in Detroit?”

 

**Detroit: 1923**

 

_ “I found it,” Wynonna announces as she slams the door to their tiny room. She and Xavier had rented in a rooming house in the oldest part of Detroit; the landlords of the time already doing their best to separate the laborers from the upper class by situating cheap housing away from the bright new amenities that the burgeoning auto industry have attracted to the town. The room isn’t bad, however, it’s dry and steam-heated with its own sink and an electrical light overhead. Wynonna and Xavier aren’t looking to stay long, in any case. Once they’ve re-upped their finances they’ll continue moving east, following the lukewarm trail of dead Immortals that Clutie has left behind her.  _

 

_ Xavier’s lying on his back on the tiny single bed, his arms folded under his head when Wynonna closes the short distance between them. She take a moment to admire him, his deep brown eyes and chiseled chest, trailing a finger over a bicep before she leans in to kiss him softly on the mouth. Xavier sighs and allows his eyes to slip shut, enjoying the feeling, until Wynonna prods him in the armpit. His eyes snap open as he pulls back with a snort and Wynonna laughs at Xavier devilishly. “Ok handsome, you ready to watch me die tonight?”  _

 

_ “What are the stakes?” Xavier asks tiredly, and Wynonna frowns at him. She sits herself at the edge of the bed and Xavier curls an arm around her without hesitation. “Hey,” Wynonna says, cupping his jaw so he’s looking at her, “if you don’t want to do this anymore I can find a straight job. All the factories are hiring, you can get something here.”  _

 

_ Xavier considers for a moment, then shakes his head minutely. “Nah, I don’t want to spend any longer in this town than necessary,” he decides. “The big money is in the fights.” _

 

_ “Attaboy,” Wynonna smiles, squeezing his cheeks together and kissing his pursed lips with a loud smack. She bounces up and starts to unwrap a parcel she’d dropped on the table at her arrival. “OK, I brought some chow, we might as well eat first.” Xavier rolls to his feet and wanders over to the table. “Grape-Nuts?” he asks. He pulls the yellow box closer and reads, “A compound made of wheat, barley, salt and yeast.” Xavier peels the top open on the box and looks suspiciously inside, then pours a small amount of the brownish crunchy nuggets into his hand and tosses them into his mouth with a grimace.  _

 

_ Wynonna winces at the way Xavier’s chewing resembles the sound of wheels on gravel. She smiles apologetically. “The lady at the store told me that Grape-Nuts enhance health and vitality. I figured if I’m gonna get my ass beat constantly, I will take all the help I can get. It says right there: you only need four teaspoons full for a meal too!” She drops a bowl in front of Xavier and one for herself; pulling a small bottle of milk out of her parcel, she waves her hands encouragingly at what Xavier’s expression indicates he’s decided is a pretty poor excuse for a meal. “Go on, eat up!”  _

 

_ Xavier rolls his eyes resignedly and pours himself a small bowl of cereal. “I can only assume it was cheap too.“ He sighs, lowering his bulk into one of the rickety kitchen chairs that make up the three items of furniture in their “fully furnished room” and begins crunching away, waiting quietly for Wynonna to tell him what she’s learned.  _

 

_ “OK,” Wynonna begins, eyes sparkling with mischief. “So it’s a fight to the death, obviously, and the proprietor is a good Protestant gentleman by the name of James, but after hours he goes by ‘Whiskey Jim.’” Wynonna leans back in her own chair and closes her eyes piously, “For the right price a man can take in a fight between two unusual contestants, and have a few drinks in the basement of Jim’s hardware store...and the purse is $500,” she adds with wicked grin.  _

 

_ “Mother of god!” Xavier says loudly, and Wynonna laughs, slapping her palm on the table. “I knew you’d like that part. There’s bound to be a lot of suckers betting on this fight.” She rolls her eyes. “For the last fight this asshole pitted two midgets against each other.  The reason the purse is so big this time is because the champion is some kind of killer cowboy from the Mexican border. He’s won the last five fights apparently. I only need to make it through enough rounds for our….” Wynonna grabs a coffee can off the floor under the sink and dumps it out on the table. She sorts through a pile of change and wrinkled bills. “....twenty-three dollars to make a few bucks. The stakes are gonna be high! But I gotta do it quick enough that we can get outta there before the coppers show up.” _

 

“So you ran a scam?” Waverly inquires, jarring Wynonna from her memory. Wynonna rolls onto her stomach and looks indignantly at Waverly. “A scam? How dare. No, sweet sister, we just lost a boxing match. Underground bare-knuckle boxing was still a popular attraction during Prohibition, and Whiskey Jim was the kind of degenerate who’d figured out how to get rich on the backs of poor laborers. There’s always been money in a freak show; Xavier and I just figured out where it was when we needed it. Whatever,” Wynonna dismisses. “Taking Jim’s money didn’t hurt my feelings then, and it doesn’t now. Anyhow, we saved some poor bastard from dying, and helped them put food on the table.” 

 

_ Xavier and Wynonna slip down a set of metal stairs at the end of a dark alley. At the bottom, Xavier removes his hat and cradles it against his chest, then raps twice against a door until a peephole opens, casting a shadow of yellow light against the concrete walls of the narrow stairway. “We’re here for the bible study,” Xavier mutters, Wynonna peering around him to nod demurely. She holds up her copy of the King James Bible as proof. There’s the sound of multiple heavy locks being moved aside and then the door swings open, the greasy-looking guy behind it gesturing for them to hurry inside.  _

 

_ Wynonna shoves the bible into her satchel, alongside her blade, as she and Xavier take a moment to look around. A rough and tumble crowd mills around an impromptu bar where a young lady wearing too much rouge serves up glasses of illegal whiskey. Wynonna nudges Xavier when she sees the set-up in the center of the room; it’s reminiscent of Eliza’s training space, and Xavier nods thoughtfully. There’s no danger here that either of them can feel, so tonight it will just be the two of them playing a game, no Game to worry about. With a whisper of “see you around” Xavier slings Wynonna’s bag and disappears into the bowels of the space.  _

 

_ A loud voice grates next to Wynonna’s shoulder, and she turns to look at a slicked-back character in a burgundy velvet vest and striped slacks. “You must be Willa,” the man grins, “I’m James, but y’all can call me Whiskey Jim.” James is looking Wynonna over like she’s a piece of meat, and he looks like a weasel when he smiles.  _ All the better to take his money and run _ , Wynonna thinks, and places a familiar hand on his shoulder. “Yes Jimmy,” she pouts, running a finger down his lapel. “I do appreciate you taking a chance on me tonight.”   _

 

_ “Great, great Willa,” Jim says, not really listening, as he stares at her breasts, “I hear you like to box? We’re gonna have us a little fight tonight but you’re a big girl ain’tcha...been around the block once or twice?”  _

 

_ Wynonna frowns, trying to overcome the instinct to punch him in the face, then schools her features into bland enthusiasm. “A handsome fella like youse gonna take care-a me, right Jimmy?” she asks, remembering the point of this endeavor. She can busy herself with hating ignorants like Jim the rest of the time. Tonight she and Xavier are going to cash in like they haven’t since Tombstone, so she allows herself to snuggle up to Jim, trying not to gag at his sour stench of body odor and cigars, and trails a hand down to rest on his belt buckle.   _

 

_ Whiskey Jim flashes that feral smile again, his eyes dropping to her hand just inches from his crotch, and grabs her ass. “Alright then, sweetheart, let’s get you to your corner. Tonight you’re gonna be fighting ‘The Mexicali Rose’.” Jim says the name with a flourish and Wynonna pauses. “Another woman?” she asks. Jim’s mouth is frozen into a bright false grin as he steers Wynonna to a stool at the corner of the room and pushes her down onto it without answering. Wynonna pulls up the skirt of her dress and knots it at the knee; she looks questioningly at Jim. “You know what kinda club this is right, Willa?” Jim asks, “I can run big purse fights because I offer the audience something a little different than the usual sorts of entertainment, if you know what I mean.” Jim winks at Wynonna as he shoves a metal bucket towards her with his foot. “Here’s your spit can, I’ll get you something to drink,” he says, walking off.  _

 

_ Within moments of his departure Xavier has sidled up to Wynonna, who turns to him, whispering confidentially. “The other boxer is named ‘Mexicali Rose’ Xavier...a woman.” Xavier scoffs. “That explains the big purse. You’ve fought women before...maybe not to the death though. All you have to do is die.” _

 

_ A cheering commences from the back of the room and Wynonna stands up to see what’s causing the commotion. She turns to throw a final annoyed glance at Xavier and that’s when they both feel it, that hard buzz down the spine that sets all their nerves on edge. “Ah shit,” Xavier mutters, backing up against the wall. Wynonna’s looking frantically around but there’s no way they can make a quick escape now. The crowds have swelled to fill the basement, and the air is fetid with the smell of sweat, tobacco, and whiskey. Hands reach in to pinch Wynonna’s ass and squeeze her thighs like a pig at market, and she can hear the bookies yelling over the roar of the crowd to “place your bets now.”  Worst of all, Wynonna sees that a number of tough-looking thugs have set up around the ring, presumably to make sure that the fighters don’t attempt to escape. _

 

_ There’s no time for Xavier to get Wynonna her blade; the press of the crowd made it difficult for him to even draw Peacemaker, but he’s managed, and now holds it concealed along the back of his leg. If he needs to he’ll shoot their way out of there. Xavier’s so busy looking for the strange Immortal that he doesn’t notice the slender young man who has sidled up to him through the crowd until he clears his throat loudly, practically in Xavier’s ear. _

 

_ Xavier jumps and whips his head around, wide-eyed.  _ It’s not him _ , he thinks, and prepares to tell this guy to piss off when he speaks, quietly and nonchalantly, and only for his ears.  _

 

_ “Rosie says relax, we’re playing the same game.” The young man pulls out a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, still staring straight ahead, a leg crooked behind him to rest on the wall.  _

 

_ Xavier spins quickly to pin him against the wall. To any onlookers it would appear as if they’re just a couple of guys bluffing and posturing over a bet. “You said what now?” Xavier hisses. “Who the hell are you?”  _

 

_ “My name is Moody. I’m a friend of Rosie…or as Jimbo likes to call her, the Mexicali Rose.” Moody looks at Xavier fearlessly. “She’s fighting tonight, and, well, let’s just say that you two were unexpected. Now can you please take your weapon away from my kidney? We only have a couple minutes to hash this out before the fight starts.” Moody looks pointedly down at Peacemaker, pressed into his ribs. “ Look, I know you know what I’m talking about so quit wasting time.” _

 

_ The buzz is sharp now and it’s distracting Xavier to not be able to see Wynonna and place their opponent, the strange Immortal, so it’s almost a relief when the cheering crowd parts to allow a slender woman to pass through. With caramel skin and long dark hair, she’s dressed in what Xavier can only assume is meant to be traditional Mexican garb: a long skirted dress with a flared bottom, gathered at the waist and topped with a sleeveless, loose fitting blouse. The dress is brown with multicolored embroidery throughout, and the effect is actually quite lovely, barring the fact that the woman is obviously here to try to kill someone.  Xavier hasn’t spotted a weapon yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there somewhere.  _

 

_ The screaming crowds circle and lean in to the fighters, and money exchanges hands out in the open, rapidfire.  _

 

_ “Where’s your girlfriend’s weapon?” Xavier asks, and he hasn’t lessened his hold on the messenger, if anything he presses the barrel just a little bit harder into his side. Moody grits his teeth in discomfort, finally dropping the cocky act, and Xavier smiles. “She’s not  _ **_my_ ** _ anything,” Moody admits, almost sadly. “There’s no one that can own Rosie. She just lets me work with her. And you already know the fighters can’t bring weapons into the ring, I have the  _ _ Macuahuitl stashed.” He thrusts his chin towards Wynonna.  “What about her?” Xavier just shrugs noncommittally.  _

 

_ “Listen,” Moody says, “we’re running the same scam right? Your girl was gonna win and take the purse? Let Rosie win and we’ll split the purse. We both know if she hasn’t got her weapon she won’t really die.”  _

 

“A mortal,” Waverly observes, intrigued. “But not together? Interesting that she trusted him enough to tell him the whole story.”

 

“We’ve all had our share of relationships with mortals,” Wynonna says. “It’s impossible not to when you live forever. Before you though, I never knew a mortal I would trust with the secret. The hardest part is knowing you’re going to lose someone you love, and it’s going to seem like your time together was no longer than the blink of an eye. Anyone could see that Moody was devoted to her.”

 

“You lost Xavier,” Waverly reminds her gently, “yet you still think of him every day, don’t you?” 

 

Wynonna avoids her gaze, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Let me finish the story, Waves, it’s a good one.”

 

_ “Why should we let her win?” Xavier asks. “Looks to me like you’re the guy in between a rock and a hard place. Let Rosita die instead.”  _

 

_ Whiskey Jim strides to the middle of the rudimentary ring he’s created and lifts both Wynonna and Rosie’s hands in the air. “This fight is to the death!” he yells, and the crowd cheers wildly. “Tonight, for your entertainment, we offer Willa, a sweet young thing just barely off her mama’s teat, against the Mexicali Rose, Rosita!”  Dropping their hands roughly, Jim smirks at his fighters. “Put on a good show, y’all, may the best woman win.”  _

 

_ Rosie moves in smoothly and takes the opportunity to grip Wynonna by the forearm and pull her close. She smiles at the crowd, so sportsmanlike, before whispering harshly at her. “How the hell are there two of you here, in Detroit, right now?” Wynonna considers for a moment before she decides there’s nothing to lose with telling the truth. If she’s siding with Clutie, she’ll kill her. If she fails to kill her, Xavier will. It’s an easy enough decision to come to.  _

 

_ “FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!” The crowd roars, and Wynonna holds up her fists in front of her face, in a solid fighting Irish stance. Rosie throws the first punch, a right hook, and Wynonna ducks it with a grin, sending a short jab to her abdomen. Rosie flexes into it, but it’s a hard hit and she grunts with the effort of taking it.  _

 

_ “My friend and I are looking for Constance Clutie,” Wynonna says, dancing around Rosie. She feigns a hook, then strikes her hard under the jaw with a strong uppercut, causing Wynonna’s teeth to clack together harshly. She bounces back out of range of the next strike, but Wynonna’s reach is long enough that her knuckles brush against her temple. Rosie whips her hair out of her face. “Clutie, yes, she was here,” she says lowly, then closes the distance between them and sends a flurry of short jabs to Wynonna’s abdomen, forcing her to lower her forearms and block. The minute she drops her guard, Rosita’s fist collides with her eye and she sees stars. The crowd roars in appreciation and Rosie smiles, raising her delicate, lethal fist in a brief celebration.  _

 

_ “What’s your real name, Immortal?” Rosita asks, absorbing a right jab with barely a flinch, but her head snaps back when Wynonna growls, delivering a solid cross to a defined cheekbone. The flawless skin splits under her knuckles in a spray of blood, and the crowd boos. Wynonna flinches when she feels wet spittle land on her shoulder. Rosita smiles smugly. “I’m very popular here,” she offers, grappling close to Wynonna and stomping hard on her foot. “They don’t like it when I get hurt.”  _

 

_ “I can see that,” Wynonna grits out; she may be Immortal but pain hurts. Sweat is starting to dampen her body, causing the dress to cling to her uncomfortably. Angry faces surround her and a young man in a partially unbuttoned shirt with rolled sleeves screams “Whore!” as she ducks and dodges. “So who’s your friend?” Rosita adds. Wynonna’s panicked look to the back wall where she’d last seen Xavier costs her a split lip, but she’s seen enough just in time.  _

 

_ “ _ **_Quit socializin’ and hit each other_ ** _ ,” Whiskey Jim bellows from the sidelines. _

 

_ When Wynonna looks back at Rosita, she’s smiling through reddened teeth. “It seems your companion, whomever he might be, is now at gunpoint. I’m pretty sure you’re the only Immortal here besides us two, so if you don’t want to lose him earlier than necessary, start talking.” _

 

_ Rosita’s expression looks a little panicked now, and she rises on her toes to try to see Moody. “Take a lesson here, lady,” Wynonna comments, “as I don’t punch you in the face when you’re not looking.” Rosita sighs apologetically. She leans in and grabs Wynonna around the shoulders. “Grapple with me or they’ll make it worse for us,” she says quietly. They make a good show of wrestling around, Wynonna even going so far as to wind her fingers into Rosita’s hair, then swinging Rosita off the ground as she screams convincingly.  _

 

_ “Moody and I have been traveling for a while,” Rosita explains, clawing at Wynonna’s neck for purchase.  “We take care of each other, I figure if the Gathering is coming, I can be late...for him, you know?” Wynonna sees the look in Rosita’s eyes when she says the name of her mortal companion, and understands  “I feel the pull to go North, but to be honest, I’m just trying to make enough to head back South. Clutie was here but she passed through in a hurry. She must have sensed me but something made her rush. Now hit me.”  _

 

_ Rosita pushes away from Wynonna and flails at her. She rewards her efforts with some restrained strikes to her face, but Rosita has no such compunctions and hits Wynonna hard in the breast.  _

 

_ “Oooooooo,” the crowd groans in sympathy. Wynonna leans over to catch her breath, clutching at her chest, and looks up at Rosita. “Really?” she coughs. “In the boobs?” _

 

_ “Looks, one of us has to die here,” Rosita hisses. “Is it gonna be you or me? Let’s figure it out and split the pot.” She strikes her again in the mouth and this time Wynonna feels a tooth loosen. She pokes her tongue into the hole and spits the bloody tooth into the bucket with a metallic “ting”. Her head is starting to spin a little; this is the part she hates the most.  _

 

_ “When I first felt the buzz we laid low in the Catholic church. Moody did a little recon and found out that Clutie caught wind of the location of some other Immortal she’d been looking for,” Rosita continues, driving a hard clout into her ear. Despite the ringing that commences immediately, Wynonna can’t help but admire the way she fights in that outfit; she reminds her of Eliza, and the memory of her teacher makes her smile a bloody grimace.  _

 

_ “I expect she’ll be back,” Wynonna says. Because it’s only fair, and she’s bleeding from the mouth, she allows herself a satisfying wallop to Rosita’s face, who staggers backwards, blood streaming from her nose. Rosita shakes her head hard, causing blood to spray across her cheek, and scowls at Wynonna. “All’s fair in love and war,” she grins sweetly.  _

 

_ Across the room Xavier has come to the same conclusion. Having heard from Moody what he knows about Clutie’s pass through the city, his suspicion is confirmed that they’re on the right trail. Now they just need to resolve this fight so they can go their separate ways. Moody’s told him about the scam they run here. He and Rosita have no interest in confronting Clutie and hope to hightail it South as soon as possible, and Wynonna figures it’s their business if they want to die at Clutie’s hand in Detroit or at any point between there and Mexico. The trick is to let Wynonna know that the fight is fixed. Xavier pushes his way over towards the makeshift ring and waits for his chance. _

 

_ The opportunity presents itself when Jim calls a break in the fight. Wynonna staggers over to her corner, sweating and bloody, and drops down onto the stool. “We don’t have much time,” she says quietly to Xavier. “Rosita says Clutie was here, you know she’ll be back.”  _

 

_ “I know everything,” Xavier tells her, “drink some water and save your breath.” He looks across the ring at Moody whispering urgently to a nodding Rosita. “The fight is fixed,” he tells Wynonna. “Jim makes sure that Rosie always wins. That’s why the purse is so high. Usually she gets beaten to death and comes back. Over and over.” Xavier rolls his eyes. “ You know how that goes. I guess we don’t have the market cornered on this scam.”  _

 

_ Wynonna grunts admiringly. “To do that all the time, it still hurts like the dickens. She’s a real bearcat, this one.” _

 

_ “Soooo,” Xavier continues, delivering the bad news, “you were planning to die anyhow, so now you really need to go ahead and do it. Moody and I have agreed to split the pot and the added bonus is that almost everyone here has bet on you. I went all in on Rosie so we’re gonna hit big and split that with them too. So before you kick the bucket, you also have to...beat the living snot out of Rosita.”  _

 

_ Wynonna leans forward and rests her face in her hands. Beating another woman to a pulp is not high on her list of favorite activities. Xavier massages her shoulders and leans in to her ear. “Just remember,” he whispers, “she’ll be good as new by morning.” Wynonna looks up and sees Whiskey Jim headed back into the ring. “I gotta go. I’ll see you after,” he says sidling back into the crowd. _

 

_ Whiskey Jim kneels in front of Wynonna and tilts her head this way and that, prodding none to gently at her eye. “She packs a wallop, don’t she?” he smirks, and Wynonna can only nod her agreement. Jim bounces to his feet and gives Wynonna a light slap on the cheek. “Let’s get back to business, eh?” _

 

_ “Ladies and Gents,” Jim shouts into the crowd, which presses further towards the ring, cheering and heckling the two fighters. “Let’s get this fight started again! There’s still time to make yer bets!” He grabs the chain of a brass bell, affixed to a pole next to the fighting area and rings it loudly. “Fight!” he orders.  _

 

_ Rosita’s on Wynonna before she can even block. One-two-three, she throws a combination that has her jaw aching and the other ear ringing. Wynonna pulls up her fists and jabs hard into her sternum, and Rosie gasps hard, the wind knocked out of her. But she somehow manages to dance backwards, despite being short of breath, and strikes again, jab-cross-cross...Wynonna’s protecting her ribs now, then a swift uppercut abuses her already throbbing jaw.  _

 

Goddamn but this woman can fight _ , Wynonna thinks ruefully,  _ but it’s time to stop holding my punches _. She rolls her neck and loosens up her arms, and the next punch sends Rosita careening across the room, stumbling to keep her footing. Wynonna follows her deliberately across the space, throwing punch after punch as Rosita’s blocks become sloppy, feeling disgusted with herself as she watches Rosita’s lips split and swell and her eyes squeeze shut under her pummeling fists. Wynonna knows what she is, but it still doesn’t feel right to her.  _

 

_ It’s in this moment of hesitation that the killing blow comes, and later Wynonna reflects that even as an Immortal, death is as terrifying as if it were permanent. Rosita’s fist collides with her windpipe and she feels it crush in her throat, then she’s gasping like a fish out of water and clawing at her neck, the screams of the crowd seemingly magnified by the rushing of blood in her ears. She drops to her knees, then onto her face like a stone, her fingers twitching slower and slower towards her throat. Rosita kneels on her back then and leans over her to whisper in her ear, even as she makes a show of a two-fisted celebratory cheer.  _

 

_ “I’m sorry for that, Wynonna, but you won’t die at my hand.” _

 

“So what happened?!” Waverly asks, completely engrossed by the story. “Obviously you lived, but then what?”

 

“Whiskey Jim dragged my apparently dead body out the back door and threw me in a trash bin, as if I were garbage. That disgusting man paid Rosita and Moody the $500, and Xavier collected his winnings. They helped Xavier bring me home. Between the four of us we made enough money for them to go South and us to move on.” Wynonna purses her lips thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of them in years, but I guess she’s dead now too. As usual, Xavier took care of me until I was recovered, and we stuck around for a few days after that...I was sure Clutie would come back to look for us, but she didn’t. The trail seemed to have run cold. We looked for her for years until…”

 

Wynonna trails off, then covers her eyes with both hands. She kneels and bends over, and then the hard silence in the room is broken by a heavy sob. Waverly moves quickly to her side, wrapping her arms around Wynonna and rocking her gently. 

 

“Shhhh, shhhh,” Waverly soothes. She’s almost frightened; in all her years with Wynonna she’s never known her to break down so completely. Xavier’s always been a subject they danced around the edges of, but now it seems the dam has broken, and Waverly’s not sure what brought this change.

 

As Wynonna’s sobs slow to hiccups, she swipes almost angrily at her swollen eyes. Sniffling, she pulls away from Waverly and uses the hem of her shirt to wipe her face, then places both hands on Waverly’s knees and takes a deep breath. 

 

“Listen to me, Waverly. You know that I love you more than my own life, and I’ve always tried to let you know that, because I never told Xavier...in all the time we were together. I was so stupid! What did I think was gonna happen?” Wynonna shakes her head angrily, then continues in a gentler tone than Waverly expects. “When it comes to you, I have not always made the best choices in life, but I always made them with your best interests in mind. Whatever happens, I need you to understand that. Babygirl, listen, I can’t believe how gross this is to say, but if you’ve fallen in love with Nicole…”

 

“I have feelings for her Wynonna, strong feelings, yes...but I’m not sure I’m ready...” Waverly says quickly, her blush speaking volumes. She casts her eyes down to the mats and picks nervously at the seams between them.  

 

“Waverly. I have eyes,” Wynonna says, tipping her head and memorizing the look on her sister’s face. “You nerds are crazy for each other, so you need to listen to what I’m saying. If you are in love with Nicole, you should be honest with her while you can. Nothing good can come of the Gathering. Clutie is so strong. I know Nicole will do everything she can...and so will I, to work our weapons together like you say, if that’s what it takes to win against Clutie. But….just in case?” Wynonna tips Waverly’s chin up so that they’re eye to eye. “Tell her you love her.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised an extra chapter today, and here it is! If I had done my math better at the beginning I would have known exactly when to start posting in order to post one a week for sixteen weeks and end right before ECCC, but math's never been my forte.   
> Thanks, as usual, to @comelayinmybed for beta.   
> I'm jamming this out in between coming from work and going right back, so all errors are my own. 
> 
> Find me on Twitter @LuckyWantsTo


	15. Chapter 15

“That was amazing, love,” Nicole sighs appreciatively, pushing back from the tiny table and stretching her legs out. She sips the last of her wine, looking over the rim of the glass at Waverly. A strand of tiny, sparkling LED lights spans the perimeter of the kitchen and two mismatched candles on the windowsill fill the space with the scent of gardenias. The homestead is old enough for the floorboards to be worn soft and the cabinet doors to hang loosely, but Waverly illuminates the room so that what would look weary under other circumstances, instead looks ethereal. 

 

Waverly smiles so widely that her eyes disappear into tiny crescents. She pokes her fork into the bowl in the center of the table and spears a final piece of tofu. “Who knew I could get even Wynonna to eat a vegan meal!” she laughs, popping the food into her mouth with a happy hum. 

 

“It’s ‘whiskey garlic tofu’, baby,” Nicole smirks, “so it contains her one food group. She almost certainly needs it to survive.”

 

“Well she also ate quinoa, but don’t tell her that.” 

 

Waverly looks at Nicole for a long moment, straight into those soft brown eyes that so easily express their love for her. She opens her mouth to say it, to tell Nicole what she deserves to hear, but the tofu sticks in her suddenly dry throat and she reaches for her glass instead, taking a long sip.  _ It’s not fair,  _ she thinks _ , if I say it she’ll die _ , white hot fear making the food in her stomach roil. 

 

“I...uh,” Waverly says haltingly, and Nicole offers a hopeful raise of her eyebrows, “I...think you ought to go talk to Wynonna,” she finishes. If possible, Waverly thinks she sees a sadness cross behind Nicole’s eyes, just before Nicole smiles, tight lipped, and looks away, nodding. She pushes to her feet and grabs her jacket, hanging just inside the door, and instinctively throws her pack over her shoulder. 

 

Just as she rests her hand on the doorknob, Nicole reconsiders. Turning to the fridge she grabs two beers and pops the caps, then heads outside.

 

Nicole pauses in the doorway to zip up her parka before dragging a chair over by where Wynonna is huddled up in a heavy blanket in her own chair with her feet kicked up on the railing, sending a text. She slides her phone into her pocket as Nicole drops her pack next to the chair, baton within easy reach, then holds a beer out with an expectant sideways glance at Wynonna. Wynonna stares off into the distance taking the beer with a sigh, rolling her eyes, then tipping the neck in salutation. 

 

The beer is good but Nicole still feels cold, and she hesitates for a moment, searching for the right words, uncertain what Waverly wants them to discuss, but Wynonna speaks first. 

 

“Let me see your weapon.” 

 

“Huh?” Nicole says, looking sharply at Wynonna. “What do you mean,  _ see  _ it?” 

 

“Waverly is so sure that there can be only one weapon that will defeat Clutie. Does she mean one of our weapons? Because that doesn’t change anything. In the end one of us still dies. Or does she mean we can make one weapon, together?” She drops her boots to the porch with a loud thunk, waving her hands in frustration. “I don’t get it. So let me see your weapon and we can like...touch them to each other and see what happens.” 

 

Nicole can’t help but smirk. “You want to touch your weapon to mine, do you?”

 

“Your ego needs managing, Haught,” Wynonna grunts, frowning. “This is serious! Which of us gets to break it to Waverly that someone still dies if this doesn’t work, huh? You?” 

 

Nicole stills then, chagrined, then slides her baton free from the holder. She rests in in her palm and the smooth, worn wood feels like safety in her hands. She looks at Wynonna, who’s already pulled her blade and rested it across her knees. The knife looks bigger than when it’s slung casually at Wynonna’s side, and she realizes that she’s seeing it in its true form. The light cast through the Homestead windows reflects in the scarred metal of the blade, throwing pale blue lines up the length.  _ I’ve barely felt the buzz around her anymore _ , she thinks, but now it rages down her spine like hot electricity. She nods firmly then, a decision made.

 

Nicole stands up and jumps the two steps off the porch, turning to face Wynonna.  She thinks about how many times she’s wielded that staff in her own defense, and the one time she used it to kill another Immortal. The power of the weapon assuming its true form radiates into her body, transporting her back through hundreds of years. Gripping the staff tightly in both hands, she holds it out in front of her in a defensive position, all of its six foot length feeling light and perfectly balanced, her feet automatically assuming a bladed stance that will allow her to maneuver and strike out in any direction. 

 

Wynonna’s awestruck; she’s never seen Nicole like this. Not even when they’ve sparred at the station did Nicole’s weapon manifest as anything other than a traditional wood police baton, darkened with use and age. Blue runes seem to crawl up the length of the staff. Nicole’s hair flames bright in the dimness of the cold evening, and even in her modern garb, she appears ageless and striking. Wynonna can imagine her as she was at the beginning, young and beautiful and raw, clad in leather and linen. Wynonna shrugs off the blanket and stands then, her short sword firmly at her side, fine veins of blue light spider-webbing the steel.

 

“I’m just going on a hunch here. I think we have to mean it, when we say the words...we have to mean that we want the weapons to become one.” she tells Nicole, stepping down to meet her, twirling the sword with a flick of her wrist. Nicole’s brow furrows, and a darkness shadows her normally clear, bright eyes. Wynonna’s stomach twists a little in fear,  _ maybe this was a bad idea _ . “I’m not trying to fight with you, Nicole,” she says almost pleadingly, “just...trust me?”

 

Nicole nods, but her expression remains cloudy and unreadable. Wynonna sets up across from her and extends her blade, and Nicole slowly meets it with her staff. “On three then?” she asks, and Wynonna nods seriously. “One...two…,” she counts.

 

“Wait! Wait!” Nicole yells suddenly, taking a step back. “It can’t just be this. Don’t you feel like we’re forgetting something? Maybe we should ask Waverly.” 

 

Wynonna lets her sword swing down by her side and tilts her head, considering. “We’re doing what Waverly said needs to happen...or trying to. I mean...we’re gonna say the words, and then we’re gonna hit the weapons together, avoiding any  _ necks _ in the process. Do we have to say something else?” She raises her sword skyward, suddenly serious. “Wait, I know. For the honor of Grayskull!” she howls, then doubles over in laughter, as Nicole rolls her eyes and rests her staff on the ground. 

 

“Seriously, Wynonna?” 

 

“Oh lighten up, Haught,” Wynonna laughs. “Things can’t possibly get worse than they already are.” 

 

Nicole nods, smiling ruefully. “You’re not wrong, Earp. Let’s just do this.” She holds her staff out again and Wynonna crosses her sword against it, the two weapons lightly touching. “One...two...three!”

 

“ _ There can be only one _ ,” they chant simultaneously. 

 

After a beat, Nicole shifts uncomfortably. Wynonna’s still staring hard at the two weapons. “Um...nothing’s happening,” she says slowly. 

 

“Jesus, Haught,” Wynonna gripes, “people say  _ I’m _ impulsive! Maybe we do have to fight.” 

 

The strike is fast, and neither of them could say who hit first. Blue sparks fly as the weapons clash and Nicole grunts, shoving Wynonna away from her. It’s different from when they’ve sparred at the office, there’s a certain desperation here, coupled with an unusual amount of restraint. Neither of them wants to really hurt the other, but they’re not sure what it’s going to take to make the weapons join. 

 

“My theory is,” Wynonna say, chopping hard towards Nicole’s staff with a ringing impact, “and don’t think I’m stupid...oof!” She glares at Nicole, who apologetically withdraws the end of her staff from Wynonna’s gut.

 

“Sorry, Wy, instinct,” she grins.

 

Wynonna spins her sword and swings low enough that Nicole has to jump both feet in the air to avoid losing her shins below the knees. 

 

“Sorry, Haught,” she mocks. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, my theory is that we have to both kinda...imagine this working.” 

 

“What’s next,” Nicole pants, sliding her hands down to the last foot of her staff and feinting a strike towards Wynonna’s head, “riding magical unicorns into battle against Clutie?” 

 

Wynonna counter-cuts her strike and attacks again, forcing Nicole to stumble back towards the porch, where she assumes a defensive posture.  _ She’ll kill me in a fight _ , Nicole realizes. 

 

They dance around each other with light strikes and parries, but the only noticeable result is that the aura around each weapon glows a little more strongly than usual. 

 

“I think it’s a little ironic that you don’t really believe in this process, Haught,” Wynonna comments. “You’re essentially a magical creature. I mean, you’re Immortal. How the hell does that make you any different from a unicorn? No one would believe that you exist, if you told them...and anyway Black Badge has a unicorn, so step off.” 

 

“Black Badge has a…,” Nicole shakes her head. “You know what? Nevermind, you’ve convinced me. I believe! Hit me!” 

 

“I knew bringing Officer Boring here was a mistake,” Wynonna grouses under her breath, then swings with a bellowed “Fine!” Nicole’s back flexes as she puts all of her strength into the strike, and Wynonna meets her in the middle with an equally powerful swing. This time when the weapons clash there’s an almighty roaring sound, stunning them slightly. Nicole’s eyes widen as her staff glows brightly, lightning crackling in the space between them, jumping from weapon to weapon, reminding Wynonna of the plasma-ball toy she’d bought Waverly for her tenth birthday. 

 

“Ho-ly shit, it’s happening!” Wynonna yelps, and Nicole’s jaw drops as, wide-eyed, she observes the new phenomenon. But almost as soon as it happens, the blue aurora fades from around the weapons and they’re left standing there, panting and disillusioned. 

 

After a few minutes just standing there, staring at the weapons like they’re waiting for them to issue instructions or something, they’re starting to get cold. Wynonna shakes her head in disgust, combing her fingers roughly through her dark tresses. “I fucking knew it, Haught. It doesn’t work!” 

 

“Maybe we have to be fighting  _ her _ for it to happen,” Nicole says slowly, thinking aloud. 

 

Wynonna steps close to Nicole, so suddenly that Nicole feels a shock of fear and goes to move away. Wynonna grabs her by the shirt, freezing her in place. Looking hastily over her shoulder at the Homestead windows, she leans in to whisper harshly into Nicole’s ear. 

 

“Listen Nicole, if it comes to it, you have to take my head.” 

 

“What the blazes?” Nicole rears back, shock plain in her expression. 

 

“It’s not fair to her otherwise,” Wynonna says insistently, and there’s a look in her eye that Nicole doesn’t recognize. “I’ve...been in love. Waverly--she’ll die if anything happens to you.”

 

_ Vulnerability,  _ _ that’s _ _ what it i _ s, Nicole thinks. She gently loosens Wynonna’s fingers from her shirt and keeps a hold of her hand. “Can we sit on the porch?” 

 

Wynonna slides her blade into the sheath and huffs dejectedly, then steps up onto the porch and drops back into her chair. “Are we gonna drink those beers you brought out?” she asks, and Nicole smiles slightly, grabbing the two beers that are now even colder than they were coming out of the fridge. She hands Wynonna hers and plops into the neighboring chair with her own. 

 

“Ok, you uh...want to talk?” Nicole asks, pulling up her hood so only a few strands of bright red hair poke out the sides and intermingle with the silvery fur lining, staring straight out into the muddy snow they’d stirred up while sparring.

 

Wynonna takes a long draught of her beer, then picks at the label, biding her time. “His name was Xavier, but I think you already know that,” she says accusingly. 

 

“How would I…?” Nicole starts.

 

“I’m sorry,” Wynonna expels in a hard breath. “It’s not you. I don’t like to talk about him. He was an Immortal. We trained together under my first teacher. He was just so...so…”

 

Nicole waits patiently for the complimentary adjective that Wynonna seeks, tipping back her own beer and letting it swirl around her mouth, enjoying the crisp, sour taste. 

 

“...stupid.” Wynonna concludes. “He was so stupid.” 

 

Nicole swivels to look at her friend then, squinting her eyes in a knowing scowl. “Wynonna,” she chastises. 

 

“Fiiine,” Wynonna draws out the word. “He was... _ everything _ . He really saw me for who I was, and he gave me room to be me, but also..he was always right behind me when I needed him. Honestly Nicole, he’s the only reason I didn’t kill you at the WILE conference.”

 

“Say what now?” Nicole questions, alarmed. 

 

“Yeah, I mean you came up on me out of nowhere and we each knew what the other was. Our kind doesn’t normally wait and see, y’know?”

 

“You obviously waited and saw with Xavier,” Nicole probes gently. 

 

“Eliza, my First Teacher, she vouched for Xavier. We trained together and...we fell in love.” Wynonna kicks fitfully at the porch rail. “Well, he had the balls to tell me that he was in love with me. I never did. Clutie killed him.”

 

“I figured as much,” Nicole admits, “but I’m sure he knew. She reaches across their chairs to place her hand atop Wynonna’s. Wynonna looks at the hand for a moment and considers moving her own. Her mind fumbles over a number of casual quips, she’ll just thrown one out there and the moment will be over she thinks, but she surprises herself by accepting comfort from Nicole. 

 

Nicole clears her throat, forcing down the emotion that’s swelling her tongue and forcing tears to the corner of her eyes. “Clutie tried to kill Aileen; she was my first love. She sent a Mercenary to kill Shae. She sent another to try to harm Waverly. And your Xavier.” Wynonna groans uncomfortably. “Yes,” Nicole continues firmly, “ _ your _ Xavier, even though he was an Immortal, she took him too. Any chance we could have had to just peacefully coexist is ruined by Clutie. I’ve always said she is the devil.” 

 

“The point is, Nicole,” Wynonna says loudly, attempting to redirect the conversation, “you have to take my head if it comes to it. Waverly is in love with you, and she deserves to have that. A sister is something else entirely from a lover. I had the privilege of having Xavier for many years, and I’ve watched Waverly grow up. I know that for everything Waverly has sacrificed in her life, she deserves to keep something good just for herself in return.”

 

“Explain to me how I am supposed to do that exactly?” Nicole challenges. “If she sees me take your head, how in love with me will she remain?”

 

“Well Clutie certainly can’t do it! She’ll get my power if so. Maybe I can like...fall on your staff?”

 

Nicole considers this. “You’d have to fall across it pretty hard, and I’ll be busy fighting Clutie, so you’d have to make it convincing.” She shakes her head abruptly. “Wait, what the fuck? We’re negotiating the logistics of me murdering you? No way, Wynonna, just...nope.”

 

“Amatuer,” mocks Wynonna. 

 

Nicole wrinkles up her face at Wynonna. “Whatever. No, you have to take my head. You’re more powerful than I am, but she can’t get my power either. And Waverly needs you. She can help you use the power that will come from killing Clutie. Knowledge of the entire universe! Where the game came from and how to make sure it never comes again.” She shakes her head firmly, decision made. “Yep, you killing me is the only way, Wynonna. You’re not going to talk me out of it.” 

 

“Nicole,” Wynonna say pleadingly, and the door opens. 

 

“Aren’t you two freezing?” Waverly asks, shivering in the doorway. Nicole jumps up, pulling her parka off and draping it around Waverly’s shoulders. “Thanks, baby,” Waverly smiles up at her, and they hold each others gaze just a beat too long for Wynonna’s comfort level. 

  
“OK!” she announces loudly. “So this has been lovely, really, thank you Nicole for the exercise, and you Waverly for the delicious chicken dinner. I have a date with Gus tonight.”

 

“You do?” Waverly asks, looking confused. “You never mentioned…”

 

“Yep. We’re binge-watching Firefly and making jello,” Wynonna insists, then under her breath, “...shots.” 

 

“Ohh, good one!” Nicole effuses. She turns to Waverly. “Baby, have you ever watched Firefly?”

 

Wynonna rolls her eyes so hard the whites seem to glow in the low light of the porch. “I’m leaving, idiots. The house is yours,” she emphasizes. 

 

Waverly slides into Nicole’s space, slipping her cold hands under Nicole’s shirt to warm them on her torso. Nicole smiles fondly at her, only a tiny flinch betraying her discomfort, losing herself in Waverly’s striking changeable eyes once again.  

 

“Let’s go inside, Nicole,” Waverly breathes. “Bye, Wynonna.” 

 

************

 

Waverly shuts the door, the sound of Wynonna’s motorcycle dissolving into the night, and they pause to quickly unlace boots and slip off shoes, abandoning them by the door. She grasps Nicole’s hand, leading her up the stairs to her bedroom. Almost by instinct, Nicole enters first with a quick glance around. Waverly comes up behind her, looping her arms around Nicole’s waist and leaning her cheek into Nicole’s shoulders. It’s warm, and soothing, and Nicole sighs happily, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. 

 

“It’s nice in here,” she says quietly, “it’s really you.”

 

Waverly smiles into her back. “I’ve always felt like something was missing in here, and I think I know what it was.” She turns Nicole to face her, reaching up to bury her fingers in the hair at Nicole’s nape, her other hand cupping Nicole’s jaw. “You look good in my room,” she breathes, taking in Nicole in her worn jeans and adorable Sock Monkey socks, “but I think you’d look better in my bed.” She pushes Nicole gently backwards, ghosting soft kisses to her chin and throat all the way, until Nicole finds herself seated on the bed, cool air swirling in the space where Waverly used to be. 

 

Waverly takes two steps back and smiles gently at Nicole, before slowly starting to unbutton her shirt. Nicole moves to rise then, reaching for her, but Waverly stills her, pausing with her fingers at the placket of her shirt. “No, sit there,” she cajoles, “I want to look at you.” Nicole sinks obediently back into the mattress, leaning back onto her elbows. 

 

Every button sliding through the hole sounds a whispering echo in time with Nicole’s heartbeat, and she can’t take her eyes from the sight of smooth skin appearing in greater increments with every shift of Waverly’s fingers down the shirt front. Waverly’s eyes flash in the muted light of the room as she watches Nicole; there’s no exhibitionism in the way she’s undressing, in the gifting of herself to Nicole. 

 

Nicole thinks about the time that has passed to bring her to this moment, she muses that if there were a sound effect for the way she feels about being with Waverly it would be that of brakes straining to stop a loaded big rig on the highway, because here she is now completely present in this moment. She’s not worried anymore about repercussions; she’s not hiding, or racing time to try to hit the end already. It’s just the two of them together, here in this moment, and Waverly has just slipped her blouse off and dropped it to pool at her feet. 

 

Nicole makes an involuntary noise, and Waverly pulls her lower lip in between her teeth, tipping her head to beam at Nicole. “What’s that, baby?” she asks. 

 

“You know what,” Nicole answers lowly. “I like that bra.” 

 

Waverly looks down at the lingerie, dark Prussian blue silk peeking through white lace, deeply plunged and highlighting her cleavage, her breasts rounding smoothly over the top of the cups. She nods, looking through lowered lashes at Nicole as she curls her finger into her waistband and uses one hand to open the snap of her pants. Nicole’s fingers flex into the blankets, transfixed by the sight of Waverly slowly lowering the zipper. She catches a flash of color through the parted linen material. Waverly speaks, “If you like that, I hope you like this too. I love this color on you,” she adds, meaningfully, and Nicole realizes that her mouth is open and she’s staring, as she snaps her eyes back up to meet Waverly’s. 

 

Waverly drops both hands to her hips and pushes lightly, the soft yet heavy weave of the fabric carrying the pants easily down smooth legs, and she steps from them to stand nearly bare in front of Nicole. She moves back towards the bed and Nicole can feel the heat of her when she slips between her knees; she sits back up to run her hands up Waverly’s torso, drawing a shiver despite the warmth of her skin. Waverly’s fingers splay around the base of her skull; she cups Nicole’s cheek. She tilts her face up as Waverly leans in to kiss her. 

 

Nicole’s tried to commit so many moments to memory over the years, but time has worn and frayed their edges, so she doesn’t think too hard about what it feels like when Waverly slides her tongue soft across her lip, or the light scratch of her fingernails when she plays with the hem of Nicole’s shirt, the anticipation warm in her belly. She tries to just be present with Waverly, but can she help it if every nerve feels more alive than ever before? If even with her eyes closed, she has Waverly’s face branded on her eyelids? 

 

She’s known that Waverly is different from the moment she met her. There’s no mortal that has ever been able to make her feel so safe and loved, including Aileen. The feeling of Waverly’s fingertips drawing parallel lines up her stomach, the fabric of her shirt stretching between them, pulls Nicole back to the present, and she smiles into the next deep kiss, bringing up a hand to press against Waverly’s lips. 

 

“Can I take this off?” she bobs her chin towards the shirt. Waverly laughs quietly. “Please.”

 

Waverly’s sure she’ll never get over the way Nicole’s skin looks when it’s exposed. Pale like carved ivory, almost translucent in the candlelight that flickers to the darkening corners of her room. Her hands follow Nicole’s as they lower after tossing her shirt away, tracing her fingers up the darker veins that protrude from the back of Nicole’s hands, around her wrists and up towards the elbow. Waverly leans in and presses her lips to the deep scar that graces Nicole’s arm. She drags her lips up, up towards the shoulder, watching Nicole as she does. Nicole’s eyes are almost closed, her lips parted, and Waverly watches Nicole rolls her lower lip in, moistening it against the upper. 

 

Nicole reaches unconsciously for Waverly’s back, slightly bent as Waverly leans into her, She traces the sharp edges of Waverly’s shoulder blades with a fingertip, and she’s rewarded with a warm purr. Nicole follows the line of Waverly’s spine down to the silken band of the sheer underwear, tripping over the lace. A burst of dark aquamarine filters Nicole’s vision then as Waverly glows in front of her, rich gold-touched skin glistening against the blue. Nicole allows her palms to wrap around Waverly’s hips, long fingers splayed and thumbs stroking hip bones. Their kissing deepens and Nicole feels Waverly start to get heavy against her as they tilt until she’s on her back and Waverly is smiling down at her. 

 

“Nicole,” Waverly asks gently, “may I?” Her hands rest on the waistband of Nicole’s jeans. Nicole nods and reaches to the button, popping it open and lifting her hips so that Waverly can slide the pants off, then pushing herself up the bed until her head reaches the pillows. 

 

“God I’m lucky,” Waverly observes, admiring the way the quickening of Nicole’s breath causes her breasts to rise and fall just that much more obviously in the dark green bralette she’s wearing. Her dark red hair is a jewel-tone contrast to Waverly’s soft grey bedding, strong legs stretching almost to the end, proud scars dot her body, and the matching emerald underwear tempts Waverly to look closer. 

 

“As am I,” Nicole agrees, and she thinks to herself that if people are made in God’s image, Waverly got made on a really good day. Waverly is lean and compact, her proportions are perfect. Dark honey hair spreads over her shoulders and there’s that ever-present glow to her, the aura that never fails to comfort Nicole. “That lingerie looks so good on you that I hate to take it off,” she teases. 

 

Waverly smiles and kneels on the bed, crawling up to hover over Nicole. She sits up and collects her hair over a shoulder, twisting it into a rough knot just out of the way. She bends into Nicole, a hand planted on either side of her face, knees bracketing Nicole’s hips, and smirks. “We could just cuddle, maybe? Except that I don’t really like this bra,” she lies with a pout, resting her weight lightly on Nicole’s upper thighs and bringing both hands around her ribcage to trail over the offending item. 

 

“You don’t, eh?” Nicole asks, her gaze locked onto Waverly. “And why is that?”

 

“Oh don’t get me wrong,” Waverly says, “I love this color on you.”

 

“Together we make the colors of Clan Haught,” Nicole observes softly, and Waverly leans in to kiss her softly on the mouth, till the furrow between Nicole’s brow smoothes and the tension disappears from her collarbones. 

 

“No, baby,” Waverly continues, “I love this color on you, but I love you more without anything.”

 

Nicole’s eyes snap open then, seeking Waverly’s, and the gravity of the statement strikes her suddenly. Waverly is nothing if not deliberate, though, and she holds Nicole’s gaze unhesitatingly, trying to convey through their wide-open connection that she knows exactly what she said, and means it exactly as Nicole hopes. But the space between them yawns with the unspoken, and Waverly knows that Nicole deserves to hear it. 

 

“I do, Nicole,” she whispers, “I do love you.” 

 

Nicole brings her hands up to thread into Waverly’s hair, needing the warmth of her closer, and Waverly settles along her, chest to chest, a thigh slipping between Nicole’s, as Nicole begins a slow massaging stroke down her back. Their mouths meet again, slow deep kisses heavy with new meaning. Waverly’s tongue strokes along Nicole’s lip, Nicole’s nose presses into the crease of her cheek. Waverly rests on her elbow and slides her other hand behind Nicole, encouraging her to lift enough that she can undo the bra, and it falls loose across Nicole’s chest. Waverly’s hand slides back around to her front and up under the fabric, her fingers cupping lightly as the thumb brushes over a hardening nipple, and Nicole breathes deeply in through her nose. 

 

“I love how you feel under me,” Waverly exhales against her lips, then kisses across Nicole’s cheek and down along her jaw. She trails her nose up the column of Nicole’s neck and grazes her tongue along the soft spot under Nicole’s ear. “I love this part of you,” she kisses, “and this,” as she drags her teeth along the shell of Nicole’s ear, drawing a shiver from below her. Waverly presses forward slightly with her hips and feels Nicole’s quadriceps flex almost imperceptibly beneath her. “I love how you respond to my touch,” she continues, switching elbows and stroking her other hand under Nicole’s opposite breast, navigating her lips downward along Nicole’s sternum. She pushes the fabric of Nicole’s bra up with her hand.

 

Nicole gasps aloud when Waverly’s warm mouth closes over her nipple; it’s so wet and soft, the tongue swirling around the hardened flesh sending flickers of sensation throughout her. Waverly’s thigh is hot between her own and she can feel the material of her underwear starting to slide against her with the light pressure from above. She presses into the muscles of Waverly’s back with her fingertips, a hand slipping down to cup Waverly’s ass and hold her more firmly against herself, even as Waverly switches her attention to the other breast. 

 

“I want to really feel you,” Nicole groans, unsnapping Waverly’s bra and pulling it forward off of her arms. Waverly lifts just enough to remove it, the cool air causing Nicole’s nipples to harden even more, and then Waverly’s breasts are soft and warm against hers. She slides her hands under the waistband of Waverly’s underwear and squeezes firm flesh, spreading her legs slightly wider so that Waverly can slot more perfectly against her. Waverly smiles at her, kissing her way down Nicole’s body until she reaches the band of the underwear, then rubs her chin lightly along the front of it, looking up the long expanse of Nicole’s body.  She hooks her fingers into the waistband and drags it down slowly, licking her lips at the sight that greets her as the clothing is tossed aside. 

 

“Ah, god, Waverly,” Nicole whispers, looking down at her through hooded lids. 

 

Waverly uses her position at the foot of the bed to quickly divest herself of her own underwear, stepping out of it onto the floor, then drapes herself back across Nicole’s calves and presses her palms into the muscles of Nicole’s legs. She slides her hands up and down, relaxing Nicole, who thrums beneath her in anticipation, as Waverly breathes closer to her sex. 

 

“I love you here, Nicole,” Waverly says, pressing kisses up Nicole’s thigh until she meets the crease between it and the soft hairs tickling her cheek. She bites teasingly at the flesh there and Nicole rolls her leg to the side, opening herself to Waverly, who wraps an arm under Nicole’s ass. “And here,” she adds, stroking her thumb up Nicole, pressing in just enough to wet the digit with Nicole’s arousal, circling the clit, then following with her mouth. 

 

Blue lights pop behind Nicole’s eyelids as the sensations overwhelm her. “Waverly,” she moans, “yes, love, that’s amazing.”

 

Waverly sucks lightly at her clit, slipping one finger slowly inside her as Nicole starts to writhe beneath her. She feels overwhelmed by the emotion of this, their lovemaking, the sheer joy of making Nicole feel good radiates through her. Ever color in her room seems brighter, and then Nicole is scratching at her hair with blunt fingertips. “Waverly, Waves,” she pants, “come up here, I want to...I need…”

 

Waverly slides up Nicole’s body, her wet mouth painting a trail against flushed skin, and Nicole wraps her arms around Waverly’s waist, canting her hips up into her and bending into a hard kiss. One hand moves to cup the back of Waverly’s head, pulling her closer, and their kisses are wet and disorganized and desperate now, their bodies wanting more, wanting release. Waverly grinds into Nicole’s thigh, slick and hot, seeking out contact with Nicole’s sex. Nicole draws her leg up and Waverly flexes her spine backwards, straddling her leg, pressing forwards with her hips, drawing her own knees underneath her until they can touch. She’s clawing at Nicole’s hips now, pressing into her as hard as she can, awed at the sight of Nicole’s stomach flexing beneath her and overwhelmed by the feeling of their connection. 

 

The new position brings previously unknown pleasure to Nicole, and watching Waverly chase her orgasm against her feels exponentially more arousing than anything she’s experienced in her life. “You’re perfect,” Nicole pants, thrusting up into Waverly, her ass flexing in Waverly’s grip. “Ahh, Waverly, I’m so in love with you.” Nicole sees her own release as a blue glow suffusing the room, coming from Waverly to surround her, whitening into a rushing in her ears, the pleasure dragging on until she can’t move any longer. 

 

Later, when they’ve rested, Nicole explores Waverly reverently, their tastes mixed together, sliding first one, then two fingers between soft flesh, pressing into her with mouth and hand. Waverly rocks slowly against her, languid movements now that the frenzy of their earlier joining has been sated. Nicole watches the muscles of Waverly’s stomach rolling like the wind over heather, the way her fingers grip at the sheets and then reach for Nicole. She pulls Waverly’s leg over a shoulder, stroking fingers up her thigh, and Waverly pants as Nicole pulls away from her to press quick kisses down to her knee. When she finally meets Nicole’s gaze, there’s a pleading there that Nicole can’t deny, then dragging her fingers up to Waverly’s sex, she slides through the heat, pushing in, her thigh between Waverly’s legs, fast breaths intermingling with her love’s. Waverly comes with Nicole’s mouth on her own and tears in her eyes. 

 

************

The sound of Wynonna’s motorcycle tearing up the dirt road to the Homestead drags Nicole from a heavy sleep, but she merely shifts in the bed to pull Waverly closer, relishing the tiredness of her muscles and the feel of her love in her arms. But moments later, every sense is on edge. Her spine nearly cracks, stretching her out with the force of the buzz, and it’s not Wynonna she’s feeling. 

 

“Baby, wake up,” Nicole says forcefully, rolling away from Waverly and on to her feet. “Shit, shit, where are my clothes?” She finds her underwear and gets a foot through a leg hole, tripping over the other one before pulling them roughly up her body. Spotting her bra hanging off of a blanket chest by the window, Nicole grabs it and forces her arms through the straps just as the pounding of Wynonna’s boots reach the doorway and the door slams open, banging against the wall behind it. 

 

Wynonna’s flushed and scared looking, a streak of blood down her cheek and her hair wild and tangled behind her like she’s been riding without a helmet. Nicole knows that the worst has come when Wynonna doesn’t even make fun of her nudity. 

 

“She’s here, Nicole,” she pants, her eyes flickering quickly to the bed where Waverly is sitting up now, clutching the blankets to her chest. With a glance between them, soft and sad, Wynonna turns back to the stairs. “Stay inside, babygirl,” she says in a tone that brokers no argument. Taking the steps two at a time Wynonna yells up to Nicole. “I’ll keep her distracted.” 

 

Nicole buttons her pants with fumbling fingers and pulls her shirt on, first inside out and backwards, then she quickly brings her arms inside and spins the shirt.  _ Who cares if I die with my shirt on wrong _ , she thinks absently. She grabs up her pack then looks at Waverly. 

 

Waverly’s wide-eyed but she looks more angry than terrified. Tears well in her eyes and she sets her lips. “Goddamnit Nicole, I’d kill her myself if I could.”

 

“Baby…” Nicole starts.

 

“No, Nicole, don’t you dare say it,” Waverly insists. “You and Wynonna together, you’re gonna make the weapon that kills Clutie.” 

 

And Nicole doesn’t have the heart to tell her that they don’t believe that’s true, so instead she smiles softly at Waverly, feeling selfish that Wynonna is out there now without her. “Let me kiss you.” Waverly leans over the bed and Nicole kisses her gently. “I love you, Waverly,” she says, pushing up and striding from the room before she can change her mind and leave Wynonna to die at Clutie’s blade. 

 

************

 

Clutie circles the Homestead, her wolf form blending seamlessly into the gray-black night and the low hills that border the rear of the property. She sniffs deeply and picks up the copper smell of blood from her first attempt at Wynonna. She chastises herself for not expecting the swing of Wynonna’s helmet; she’d attempted to take her while Wynonna straddled the bike outside the local bar. 

 

The helmet had impacted her shoulder with a solid thump, and Clutie stumbled backwards just enough for Wynonna to get the bike started and peel out of the spot. 

 

_ Even drunk she’s powerful _ , Clutie’d thought with grudging admiration,  _ though I might have underestimated exactly how much alcohol it takes to make her drunk _ . She’s gotten into her Lincoln then and steered it towards the Homestead, following the buzz and the smell of blood. Turning into the street, she’d veered deliberately towards Wynonna’s abandoned helmet, clipping it and sending it skittering across to impact the other curb. 

 

Now, she can see Wynonna outside, her blade in hand, bright lines reflecting off the blade in the ambient lighting. Clutie smells the other one, the Scots woman, and bares her teeth a little in a grin. She can smell the sex and knows what it means:  _ She’ll be off her game. They’ll both be willing to die for the stray.  _

 

Nicole bursts outside then, her staff in full form, and Clutie watches as the two women confer briefly then pace off to the edges of the house, each holding a corner, checking back over their shoulders to confirm that the other is still there. Clutie can smell their terror and their nervous energy, and it makes her gleeful. She thinks of their power entering her, how it will feel,  _ better than anything they can understand _ she sneers, better than mere pleasure because it  _ means _ so much more. All the power of the universe will soon be hers. And then she sees her opening. 

 

Waverly stands in the window. She’s quickly pulled on a sweatshirt and pants she found, and she casts her gaze from side to side, squinting through the darkness. Clutie coils her strength beneath her and leaps. 

 

Waverly just has time to recoil, the curtains tearing loose from their rod as she stumbles backwards, when Clutie kicks through the window and drops inside the room. For a moment Waverly thinks how beautiful the witch is, all white teeth and blue eyes, and then she’s running. Waverly knows this house, she’s lived here since she moved out from Gus’ and she makes directly for a linen cabinet in the hallway, reaching quickly on top of it and racking the shotgun one-handed before rounding on Clutie. 

  
“That can’t kill me,” Clutie laughs melodically, then snarls. “Stupid mortals.”

 

“It can sure as hell slow you down,” Waverly replies cooly, then fires. 

 

This shotgun is Waverly’s favorite, a combat shotgun with a pistol grip and a short barrel, intended for intruders. It’s loaded with slugs and this one tears a hole the size of a soda can through the witch’s chest. 

 

“Waverly!” Wynonna shouts, at the sound of the gunshot. Nicole turns wide-eyed to the house. They both run for the steps and there’s a moment when they’re pushing past each other in the doorframe before Wynonna bursts inside with a “Fuck, Nicole,” to see Waverly jump down the last few steps, Clutie at her heels. 

 

Nicole shoves Waverly roughly behind her and Clutie doesn’t even hesitate before slashing and striking at Wynonna, who’s pushed to the front and is chopping at Clutie like a woman possessed. It’s a bad place to fight, and Nicole’s reminded of her cottage in Salem Town, how Clutie cornered her there, how bad the fight could have gone had not the townspeople arrived. 

 

She grabs Wynonna by the back of her jacket then and swings her staff in front of her, blocking a particularly savage strike from Clutie. “Outside, Wynonna,” she grunts, pulling them backwards and out the door to the blessedly open space. 

 

Clutie strides through the door, a savage grin on her face. “Which of you will die for the other?” she asks. 

 

“You will die for us,” Nicole answers cooly. “How’d that shotgun work out for you?” 

 

Clutie looks down at the blood seeping through her shirt, and Nicole can see the flesh beneath already knitting together with a reddish blue light emanating from the wound. She shrugs, unconcerned. “I told the little slut that she couldn’t kill me,” then looks slyly at Wynonna. 

 

“Never talk about my sister!” Wynonna rages, charging at Clutie. It’s all Nicole can do to keep with her, chopping and slashing as Clutie manages to parry her every stroke with ease and even pleasure in her expression. Purple sparks shoot from the impact of their weapons, fading to blue, a crackling corona across the scene. 

 

“Sister, eh?” Clutie mocks. “You could never have a sister. You wasted all of your promise as an Immortal on that weak little bitch. Look at her, so unnatural, fucking this one,” and she gestures with her knife at Nicole. “Aren’t you repulsed? And you,” she turns to Nicole, “the only thing I’m looking forward to getting from you is the power you have to persuade others that you’re telling the truth. Because that bitch believes you love her, doesn’t she? Ahh, you’re a dog, aren’t you?”

 

“You foul, disgusting beast,” Nicole grits, swinging her staff hard at Clutie. This time they’re lucky and the weapon connects with Clutie’s shoulder, tossing her off balance, but she’s quick to correct her feet. Wynonna moves into the space Nicole creates and slashes into Clutie’s thigh, a quick gash that begins to bleed heavily. She wastes no time chopping at Clutie’s hand as it brings the knife up to block, and a finger drops to the ground, neatly severed. 

 

“Hmm,” Clutie growls, “that was uncalled for.” She reaches down and picks up the finger, shoving it into a pocket as Wynonna and Nicole watch in horror. Nicole sees an opening then and circles behind Clutie. She’ll have to fight them from both sides now. Nicole slides her hands up the staff and jams it hard into Cluties’ side, readjusting and swinging it like a club, hoping for the neck. She’s sweating and breathing hard, and Clutie laughs at her. “Shouldn’t have wasted all that energy in bed,” she says, stabbing her dagger hard into Nicole’s thigh. 

 

The wound burns like nothing Nicole’s ever felt and she throws her head back and howls as the pain radiates down her leg and up into her chest. It feels like her heart is on fire, and she’s vaguely aware of Wynonna yelling her name even as she fights Clutie back away from Nicole. Nicole tries to stand then, stumbling with the effort, but she can’t bear her own weight, and so she hops one-legged, using her staff for support, willing the wound to start to heal so she can get back into the fight. 

 

Clutie transitions into her wolf form and Nicole burns with the unfairness of it all, shoving herself forward back into the fray. She’s so fast as a wolf and Wynonna can barely keep up, as Clutie bites at her forearm. Only the heavy horsehide of her leather jacket keeps Clutie from tearing off Wynonna’s arm, and Wynonna hisses in pain. “Nicole,” she says lowly, grunting as she haphazardly flails at Clutie, “she’s too strong...you have to…”

 

Nicole hobbles up behind Clutie then, seeking out Wynonna’s eyes, before sending a prayer of thanks heavenward for everything she’s ever been given. The next time Clutie transitions back into human form Nicole grits her teeth and wraps her forearm around Clutie’s chest, twisting her hand in Clutie’s hair and yanking her head back. The witch struggles against her, as strong as any animal Nicole has ever fought, snapping her teeth, stabbing repeatedly back behind herself into any part of Nicole that she can reach, every new wound a burning agony. Wynonna smiles then, bright and joyous, swinging her sword hard around towards them until, at the last moment, Nicole closes her eyes and shoves Clutie to the ground. 

 

The blade severs Nicole’s neck almost cleanly, her head tilting grotesquely backwards as her body collapses to its knees, the blue essence of her Immortality flows from her into Wynonna, and the air is filled with the sound of Clutie’s laughter, Waverly’s scream, and the absence of Nicole. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @comelayinmybed for beta. 
> 
> Chat with me @LuckyWantsTo on Twitter.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let your love cover me,  
> Like a pair of angel wings,  
> You are my family,  
> You are my family.  
> — Family (Dar Williams)

Wynonna’s hand feels welded to the grip of her shortsword as she stumbles forward with the force of the blow. The blade meets Nicole’s staff, still clutched in her hand, and a shocking, sudden, blinding light strobes around them as the energy crackles from the ground to the sky and back down again. Wynonna’s ears are assaulted with a cacophony of sounds; it’s like trumpets and thunder, whitewater rushing, car wheels on gravel, and the loudest metal concert she’s ever been to, all rolled into one. She screams out in agony or pleasure, she’s not sure which, riveted to the spot as the two weapons seem to fuse. 

 

Clutie scuttles backwards, her face contorting in fear. She shakes herself and tries to shift, but the change seems to pause midway, as her teeth lengthening into canines is the only affect. Clutie growls in fear and anger, circling warily, not yet daring to close the distance between them. “Fine!” she snaps, “I’ll take you too, in whatever form. You’ve done my dirty work for me now, I’ve only you to deal with. Come!” 

 

It’s howlingly silent there, with Wynonna hunched over Nicole, Waverly wide-eyed and speechless by the Homestead, her fingers clawed into her mouth in horror and disbelief. Wynonna feels a hard pang of regret and sorrow; she’d done what she always known she would somehow do, and broken Waverly’s heart. But the feeling quickly morphs into burning rage, and through the sheer power of her emotion and the energy coursing through her body, the transformation happens. 

 

The aura around the weapons pulses like neon in a tube, getting brighter and brighter, shifting through every variation of blue, from the deepest ultramarine, through indigo, wind blue like the stripe on her old Bronco, to the cornflower of the first winter coat they ever bought Waverly, brightening and lightening to a blinding icy whiteness. The familiar humming buzz that Wynonna associates with the presence of another Immortal swirls around her, and power thrums through her palms as she lifts the new weapon into view: an enormous, flaming broadsword. 

 

Wynonna absently notes that the pommel of this weapon is the same dark wood that Nicole’s staff had been, the delicate threading around the leather grip is bright red like a new copper penny, and the thick blade swirls with runes and light. 

 

“Impossible,” Clutie hisses. “None can take the power of another Immortal’s weapon. I have the marks to prove it!” She thrusts her scarred palm out towards Wynonna and is stunned when a quick swipe of Wynonna’s sword separates her hand from the wrist like nothing. 

 

“This is a good sword,” Wynonna grits. “My  _ friend _ Nicole would have loved the heft of this thing; it’s long enough to swat the ass of a sheep.” Wynonna strides towards Clutie with a tortured grimace, hacking almost lazily at the witch. Clutie holds her oozing wrist against her chest and lashes out towards Wynonna with her twisted blade, but blows from the broadsword and Wynonna’s rage overwhelm her, and she’s quickly forced to her knees. 

 

She cowers back and drops her weapon, raising her uninjured hand placatingly towards Wynonna. “Please,” she says sweetly, but her eyes are flat like a snake, “Let’s work together...I’ll teach you to share the power...what it  _ means _ .” 

 

Wynonna rests the flat of the blade across her shoulder, both hands tightly gripping the handle. She looks at Waverly, now kneeling next to Nicole’s prone form with tears streaming from her eyes. She thinks of Eliza, and Xavier, and how she never told him she loved him, and how plain it is now that she loved Nicole as much as anyone else in her life. The witch kneels in front of her like a disgusting insult, staining her land with the dark blood trickling from her wrist, smiling at her through bared, lying teeth, and she knows this is the end.

 

“For all the hurt I have caused in my life, and has been brought to me, at least I have learned how to love, and what sacrifice looks like,” she says quietly, “It’s over.” Waverly meets her eye and Wynonna chokes back a sob; she sees no anger or hate there. Love shines through the tears, and Waverly nods slightly as Wynonna hefts the broadsword and without another word to the witch, strikes her head from her neck. 

 

This time when the power comes, it’s darker than Wynonna’s ever seen, black and red intermingled with a bottomless blue, and she drops the sword abruptly, rushing to cover Waverly with her body. The earth seems to rend and the sky to tear; bright light and the absolute absence thereof meeting with a supersonic surge; time stands still. 

 

Wynonna looks frantically at Waverly, frozen over Nicole with a hand at the gruesome tear across her throat, then around them where the wind is at a standstill, falling leaves from a nearby tree hovering in mid-air. She’s suddenly overwhelmed by the awareness of...everything...flooding into her mind, as she grips her temples between splayed palms in agony. Her entire life flashes before her eyes, all the way back to the Viking in the woods, and she can even smell the trees and see the individual grains of soil embedded in the skin of that brute. Surprisingly then she see’s Nicole’s story, and she’s treated to the sight of five year old Nicole scaling the stones of her house and charming some curly-haired blond lassie in the tall grasses of the Highlands. 

 

“Jesus, Haught,” she chokes out a laugh, “always with the pretty girls.” But the moment is lost into history as she goes back and back, watching a colorful blur of what she suddenly realizes are land masses shifting and forming, the migration of people and animals, even the evolution of a bright blue butterfly. All of this flickers across the back of her eyelids faster than the fastest hummingbird’s heartbeat, faster than a blink, and then it stops, and Wynonna’s just  _ existing _ in an indeterminate, achromatic space. 

 

“You would think for things made from Chaos,” comes a haughty voice, “they wouldn’t be so boring.”

 

“Their lives are so short,” speaks another, “we have to keep resetting them to make it worthwhile. Where is Chaos anyhow?”

 

The next voice isn’t even words, but an understanding that Wynonna finds herself privy to. “I remain in the space between heaven and hell,” it expresses. 

 

“You mean  _ Purgatory _ ?” Wynonna stresses boldly, and she feels herself being noticed, sensed, by some great powers older than anything she’s ever known. Her memory flicks back to the office, to Waverly hefting a large book:  _ Greek Primordial Deities _ . After the events of her life, however, she’s not afraid of anything supernatural, natural, gods, goddesses, demons, witches, green vegetables, or otherwise. 

 

“Yes, Purgatory,” Chaos agrees. “But I introduced the Game. Seeded the world with Immortal heroes. It took them aeons for one to emerge as winner. The winner can choose what comes next: the ultimate Prize.”

 

“The winner is you,” comes the first voice, directed towards Wynonna. “I knew I made you best. Out of all of them, at least you were interesting to watch.”  _ Ananke _ , Wynonna’s brain helpfully supplies,  _ the personification of inevitability and necessity _ . She briefly wonders how she knows this. But then she sees the resolution to the existence of the cosmos come to her in a quirk of light through her synapses, and shrugs. 

 

“Mine was the goodest good,” says the next voice sadly. “To the detriment of her own life, that is.”  _ This one is Eros _ , thinks Wynonna,  _ the god of love _ . “She gave her life for me, so thank you for that,” Wynonna says, “but I would have done the same for her.” 

 

“Would you?” asks Ananke, “Good only gets you so far. Yours was too soft, Eros. But it’s no matter now. Wynonna Earp, you are the Champion.”

 

A cold voice comes then, that sends shivers down Wynonna’s spine and singes her nose with the suggestion of brimstone; the personification of rage. “It’s a Game with a very valuable Prize, Wynonna,” Bia growls, and Wynonna’s suddenly enthralled by the feeling of enormous power rushing through her. Every muscle feels strong and tensed, every sense exaggerated, and she sees herself seated on a golden throne alongside shimmery, gorgeous deities...and it feels  _ good _ . “You could be a god!” Bia promises, sneering lowly to her fellows, “Mine would have won if you and Eros hadn’t introduced  _ Choice _ .”

 

Wynonna shudders free from the image, the gold tarnishing and peeling in her mind. “You sound like her, like Clutie,” she hisses, “did you make her in your image?”

 

“We can only suggest...Anyway, Bia,” Ananke scolds, “Clutie cheated from the start! How many chances did you think she would get to win?”

 

“Waverly has something to do with this, doesn’t she?” Wynonna asks. “Wait, why am I asking you anything?” She knocks her knuckles against her temple.  “I seem to have all of the knowledge of the universe right here, owww. Why does that still hurt me?”

 

_ If it’s possible for ancient formless beings to roll their eyes, they’re doing that _ , thinks Wynonna, as a suggestion of impatience surrounds her. 

 

“A couple things...uhh, number one: this is totally wasted on me, and when Waverly finds out she is gonna be pissed that I didn’t ask...whatever it is she’s always wanted to know. I’m not sure anything can exist long enough to survive that experience!” Wynonna laughs fondly.

 

“But I get it now!” Wynonna says.  “Ananke made me, and Eros made Nicole. Bia made Clutie...fuck you very much by the way, and...Aether and Gaia played a part as well, yes?... This is really fucking weird, by the way, but Waverly would love it. We’ve always just been pieces in a game. It’s very ‘Alice in Wonderland’,” she muses. 

 

“Ahh, Waverly,” sighs Eros as the essence of wildflowers surrounds Wynonna, “we  _ love _ her. If anyone should have been the Champion from the start, it should be Waverly. But alas, she cannot play the Game.” Wynonna feels a niggling in her brain that she realizes is new knowledge sprouting. It’s like Eros planted a seed that suddenly bursts into flower, and she gasps with the awareness. 

 

“Waverly is Choice manifested, right? Clutie cheated so much that you created Waverly and put her in front of me. I was one of the last Immortals and you had to gamble on who would benefit from having Waverly in their life, but I had to make the conscious choice to accept her!” 

 

“You have a tendency to be stubborn and a bit selfish. It’s more a question of nature versus nurture for you, I’m afraid.” Ananke says. “But Waverly, she’s brilliant, isn’t she? Probably one of the better things I’ve ever made.”

 

Eros clears their throat loudly. 

 

“...in partnership with another, of course,” Ananke hastily corrects. “What we’d call a messenger... today’s predominant religion would call an angel. She brought the knowledge to you in its many forms; it was up to you to decide how to use it.”

 

But Wynonna’s not even listening. She’s running a flashback of something she didn’t even witness: Waverly’s life from the moment the two forces joined to create her, all the way through to this moment, where she’s frozen in time with her hand covering the rend across Nicole’s throat, tears shining unfallen in her eyes. She thinks of Waverly’s aura, of the power she has to make Wynonna, and really everyone that comes in contact with her, feel loved and special and safe. 

 

“The weapons are just the physical forms of the symbols of power. It’s never mattered what form they took,” Wynonna realizes, slowly speaking aloud the joyful thought that rises in her chest. “If we let go of them, we can choose to seal the damage they’ve created in the universe. We can use that power to do whatever we want. Waverly can fix this,” she mutters. “She can fix Nicole and bring her back to us because she is Choice personified. She can CHOOSE to save Nicole.”

 

“Wynonna,” comes a gentle voice, and Wynonna’s mind is flooded with cool, quiet, soothing, welcome darkness. “Nyx,” she greets softly, relaxing into the blessed nothing that Nyx conveys. Would it be so bad to let it all go: all the sadness, rage and hurt of humanity, aging and dying, the loss and broken heartedness, even the joy and pleasure? It could all be gone and then no creature would have to feel as deeply as Wynonna feels all the time. 

 

“Wynonna,” Nyx purrs, “You get one Prize. If you choose for Waverly to know her provenance, for her to heal Nicole, the prize is that. Once you gift the prize away, with it goes universal knowledge, potential to change the world, and any other personal gain. The Game is over and you all live your lives as mortals, whatever that brings to you. We can’t promise to protect you in the future, and your lives will pass like dust in the wind. Think carefully, Wynonna. There is so much power at hand here for you to take or give as you will.”

 

Wynonna inhales deeply, closing her eyes and steadying herself. In a way it’s so vastly selfish, her decision, but what other way to be human that to accept this? “I can’t wait to feel like myself again, you amorphous, indeterminate assholes,” she laughs out. “If Waverly heard me talking like a thesaurus she might even use a real curse word.”

 

It feels like a simple push of her mind, a rushing in her ears, and no time has passed. Wynonna’s back next to Waverly, her hand atop her sister’s, Nicole’s lifeblood trickling between their knuckles. Waverly faces her, horror in her eyes, and Wynonna tries to convey her every emotion through a simple glance as she lifts her sword, then presses hard on the blade, her hand tightening and twisting. Waverly gasps as the weapon compresses into a swirling ball of light instead of slicing Wynonna’s hand to shreds. 

 

“I choose you, Waverly,” Wynonna says, “I’ve always chosen you, but now I choose to give you back the power that should have always been ours. You’re our angel, babygirl, and you can heal Nicole if you take this. The Game can be over.”

 

“But Wynonna,” Waverly whispers, “you’re the Champion. You beat Clutie. You won the Prize, and it can be whatever you want it to be. The whole world...”

 

“To free you from the Game is the only prize I want, and the best part is, we’ll all be free. You’ll have the real life you always deserved, but we have to do this now.” Wynonna presses the orb of light directly into Waverly’s chest, where her heart would be. 

 

There’s a moment of shock when Wynonna almost pulls back; it’s like the minute the energy transfers, she can feel Waverly probing her innermost thoughts and desires, the touch of her hands to Waverly’s chest joining their hearts together. Every secret corner, every hidden longing, and every bit of pain is wide open to Waverly now, and she looks at Wynonna with soft understanding.

 

Wynonna’s not sure what she’s expecting is going to happen, maybe giant white wings will spring from Waverly’s back, or Waverly will grow into a shining pearlescent outline in the darkness.  _ What do angels really look like _ , she thinks,  _ it’s not like anyone knows. _ So it’s maybe a little disappointing when Waverly stays where she is, on her knees over Nicole. But then Wynonna notices the aura surrounding her hands is just that little bit brighter, and her own feeling of wellbeing is just a tad warmer, and Nicole’s chest rises and falls as Waverly leans in to kiss her lips. 

 

After the life she’s lived, Wynonna doesn’t think she believes in miracles anymore. The light exuding from Waverly’s hands spreads and fades over Nicole’s prone form, down into Nicole, then out to creep along the ground, and Waverly looks up at Wynonna with joy illuminating her every feature. 

 

“Thank you, Wynonna,” she says, “but this is for you too.”  She holds her hands up to the heavens, the residual glow coalescing into one final blinding corona in her hands, then points behind Wynonna, and a deep voice comes suddenly, crystal clear through the staticky interference of the magic swirling around them. 

 

“Wynonna Earp,” Xavier says, amusement coloring his deadpan delivery. “I knew you’d never leave me behind.” 

 

************

**Two years later: Purgatory**

 

“Ugh, you guys, can you ever stop?” Wynonna groans, walking into the bullpen through the swinging door at the Sheriff’s Office. 

 

“We’re putting paper in the copier, Wynonna,” Waverly says flatly, as Nicole leans over and slides the stack into the tray.  

 

“Yeah, but it’s the way you’re doing it that’s gross,” Wynonna complains, as Waverly smirks and hops off the top of the machine, flattening her short skirt with her palms. She leans into Nicole and gazes softly up at her. 

 

“So it’s official, eh?” Wynonna asks, hiding her satisfied smile behind the donut she steals off of Nicole’s desk. “Hey,” Nicole whines, pouting a little. “I was saving that for later.” 

 

“Yeah, we’re lucky you’re not Immortal anymore,” Waverly answers, opening the mini-fridge in the corner and removing another donut that she’d secreted in the back. Wynonna’s eyes widen incredulously as Waverly hands the new donut to Nicole with a wink. “The sheer amount of counterfeit paperwork you created would probably shift the balance of your score right back to evil.” 

 

Wynonna scoffs. “Oh I’m sure some of those trickster gods would appreciate how clever I am...Loki for example. I saw him in that Marvel flick and he is way worse than I am. Anyhow, Bobo Del Rey, counterfeiter extraordinaire, actually taught me something useful, and it got your girlfriend a cop job. It’s frightening actually, how easy it is to make someone a citizen of this country,” she reflects. “Anyhow, it’s been hundreds of years, and Purgatory is still the sticks, so I don’t think it’s evolving anytime soon.” She looks over to the corner, where Lonnie’s hunched over an ancient typewriter, two fingers pecking away at a form with excruciating slowness. “Nedley’s probably just glad to have a competent officer working for him for once.”

 

Nicole looks proudly down at her Purgatory Sheriff uniform, raising an eyebrow at Waverly, who’s staring as Nicole slowly rolls up her sleeves to the elbow. “See something you like, baby?” she flirts, and Wynonna gags dramatically. “I shoulda let you cut off my head.” 

 

“ _ Anyhow _ ,” Waverly sings, “what brings you to the office?”

 

“Delivering another bounty,” Wynonna says, cramming the end of the donut into her mouth. She pulls the door open and looks hopefully into the mini-fridge, then pulls out a carton of coffee creamer, drinking deeply from the container. “What?” she says to Nicole’s horrified look, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, “you savages don’t keep milk here.” 

 

“Wynonna’s been here ten minutes and she’s already shocked and disgusted you, huh?” 

 

“Xavier!” Waverly yells happily, running to the doorway to wrap her tiny self as tightly as possible around his massive form. “I didn’t know you were coming too!”

 

“Yeah, I figured, why sit around Toronto when I could let Wynonna snark at me for a couple hours in the car. Nicole,” he nods with a smile, “the uniform looks good on you.” 

 

“Thanks, Xavier,” Nicole grins. “Turns out patrolling the Canadian wilderness is just as uneventful as patrolling the Scottish Highlands.”

 

Wynonna and Xavier exchange a look then, just a quick glance between the two that Waverly spots immediately. “What are you two hiding?” she demands, and Wynonna laughs. “Never have been able to keep anything from you, eh babygirl? OK, Xavier and I have a proposition for you.”

 

Waverly’s eyes light up, she knows there’s more to Wynonna and Xavier’s business than meets the eye, but she’s been so engaged in continuing her research into her own heritage, and compiling a memoir of the Game for posterity, that she hasn’t directed a huge amount of her attention towards solving whatever it is. 

 

“We need research,” Wynonna says. 

 

Nicole smiles. Waverly’s practically drooling when she folds her arms and leans across the table. “I’m listening,” she replies breathlessly.

 

Xavier leans casually against the counter. “What do you know about...demons?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this from my car this morning after a super early start to my work day, I feel surprisingly melancholy.  
> This story started out as a joke really, to challenge myself a little and to see if I could actually weave something really good (Wynonna Earp) into something really...niche (Highlander)...just to give Nicole a Scottish brogue—and here we are.  
> I’ve had a lot of fun, and stressed myself out quite a bit writing this. It’s not perfect, it’s not the best fanfiction out there, as they say far too often at my job “it is what it is”...but I’m still sorry to be done with it.  
> I said I wasn’t going to write but I caught the bug.  
> Thanks to the talented @jnsbeth for being my expert on all things Scottish.  
> And of course, special thanks to @comelayinmybed for beta, moral support, and friendship.
> 
> Hopefully soon we’ll have a new season to spin into fanfiction. Until then, chat me up in Twitter @LuckyWantsTo
> 
> All errors are my own.


End file.
